


every bit as feral

by tragicallynerdy



Series: ursa major [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: (not of a main character), Blood, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, De-Aged, De-aged Clayton Sharpe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Whump, Episode 4 spoilers, Established Relationship, Gore, Homophobia, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Teen!Clayton, Were-Creatures, Werebear Matthew Mason, so much angst y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23885599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragicallynerdy/pseuds/tragicallynerdy
Summary: “Okay Amos,” Clayton whispered, “you’re fine. You’re in a fucking cave, and there’s a fuckingbearthat wants you topet him. But this is fine, everything isfine.” He choked out a hysterical laugh, thunking his head back against the cave wall.Amos,Matthew thought.Fuck, I forgot.This is who he was, then. A skinny, bruised boy who swore just as much as Clayton did. Matthew looked at him, and felt his heart break.-A witch almost bringing a cave down on their heads and trapping them inside of it would be bad enough. But to make matters worse, Matthew is stuck in his werebear form and can’t shift back. And Clayton – Clayton is somehow a goddamn teenager again.
Relationships: Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Series: ursa major [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1721386
Comments: 62
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afearsomecritter (jsaer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsaer/gifts).



> Howdy y'all! 
> 
> This fic is set in the same universe as my ficlet collection _honeycombs and berry bushes_ , featuring werebear Matthew and regular ol' human Clayton. You do not necessarily need to have read that to understand this - while it will help provide some background on their relationship etc, the basics are as follows:
> 
> Matthew is a werebear, who can shift at will. He and Clayton have been in a relationship for at least a year at the time of this fic. 
> 
> That's it! 
> 
> Please heed the tags and warnings for this one, especially for implied/referenced child abuse, and mentions of homophobia/internalized homophobia. Whereas _honeycombs_ is pretty light and fluffy, this one is decidedly not. I'm delving a bit into my own headcanon for Clayton's past in this one (which, if you are curious, is detailed further in _i threw stones at the stars but the whole sky fell_ , which is not a part of this universe).
> 
> This is a gift for the ever wonderful afearsomecritter - many thanks for the prompt for this one!! They requested de-aged/teenage Clayton and werebear Matty stuck in a cave together, a lovely little prompt that grew into this beast. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_Fucking witches,_ Matthew thought, staring at the too-thin teen sprawled on the ground beside him. He had no idea _what_ exactly had happened, but here they were, stuck in a caved-in… well, cave. What kind of witch lived in a cave, he didn’t know, but he was _not_ a fan.

_At least there are lanterns here and she didn’t trap us in the dark, unable to do anything,_ he thought. _Fuck, this is not a good situation._

They had been looking for a witch, someone who had been raising spirits in the area. They knew roughly where she lived in the Black Hills, but had been having trouble narrowing down an exactly location, so their group had split up after several days of searching. The others had gone down one trail, while he and Clayton had followed another. They decided to check out a cave on a whim, but then she was there, and angry, and Lord were they unprepared.

The witch had done _something_ , had cast some spell that forced him to shift into his bear form, and now he couldn’t shift back. He’d never been stuck like this before, and it was frankly terrifying. Before he could properly respond she had cast a second spell at Clayton, darted out of the cave, and brought the cave entrance down on top of them. Clayton had collapsed as soon as the spell landed, and Matthew had barely managed to drag his body out of the way of the falling rubble in time, not even noticing until after that something was wrong.

Clayton was _younger_. He couldn’t think of any other way to put it. His partner now looked like a teen, maybe fifteen, sixteen years old. He was thin, alarmingly so, swimming in his clothes with a freshly broken nose that Matthew knew hadn’t been there before. His hair was shorter, his facial hair gone, and it was hard to see the man he knew in the teen lying on the ground beside him.

A low groan split the air, and Clayton started to move. Matthew nudged his hand, letting out a questioning whine, hope swelling at some signs of life beyond the soft breathing that had filled the space before. Clayton’s eyes squinted open and looked up at him hazily, before they widened with alarm. He let out a strangled shriek and wrapped his arms around his head.

_Shit_ , Matthew thought as Clayton started to hyperventilate, visibly shaking. He could smell the fear pouring off him in waves, and quickly backed away with a soft whine, laying down some ten feet away on the floor. _He doesn’t remember me_ , he realized with a sinking heart. _Should’ve guessed that would happen_.

“What the fuck,” Clayton wheezed softly. “What the fuck, what the _fuck_.” He scrabbled backwards, cowering in the nearest corner. He grabbed a piece of rubble, holding it aloft in a way that would have been threatening he weren’t so damn _small_. Matthew was just glad he hadn’t noticed the gunbelt hanging around his hips. “Don’t, don’t fucking come any closer.”

His voice cracked halfway through, and Matthew flattened himself even further against the ground, attempting to make himself as non-threatening as possible. It was a bit impossible – he was a 1200 pound grizzly bear, and there was only so much he could do. He tried to croon, but it came out in a low growl, and Clayton _shook_ , panicked gasps now coming out of his mouth.

_That’s it._

He couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t just sit there and wait while Clayton was obviously terrified, even if he was terrified of _him_. He lumbered upright and walked slowly over to the teen, whining all the while. Clayton shouted and waving the rock about wildly, chucking it at Matthew when he got too close. It hit his shoulder, enough to hurt but not nearly enough to slow him down, so he simply huffed and kept going. And then Clayton _screamed_ , curling into a tiny ball of long limbs and bony elbows, and Matthew’s heart broke even further.

He sat beside the shaking ball of teenager and whimpered, then licked him across the top of his head. A strangled noise came from within the ball and Matthew whined again, bending down to lick his ear, his hand, any skin he could reach. He stuck his snout in Clayton’s armpit and chuffed, then lay down beside him with a snort.

It felt like the moments stretched forever, Clayton huddled in fear, Matthew sniffing and licking at him in the hope that he would understand that he wasn’t going to harm him. And finally, finally it worked. Clayton peeked out from between his arms with a confused look on his face, still trembling. Matthew poked his snout in and licked a stripe across his face, grinning toothily when Clayton sputtered and pushed him away. The teen wiped the saliva from his face before he remembered the bear, his teeth and his claws, and cowered again. Matthew whined and nudged in close until his head was lying in Clayton’s lap, staring up at him with puppy-dog eyes.

“What the _fuck_ is happening,” Clayton breathed out, staring down at the bear in his lap.

_If only you knew._

Matthew just snuffled in response, then shifted his head to lick Clayton’s cheek again, staying clear of the deep purple-black bruise stretching across the bridge of his nose. Clayton let out a hysterical laugh, pushing at his head with one hand. Matthew chuffed and rolled his head into Clayton’s hand, angling until it settled near his ear. Clayton froze, hand shaking in his fur.

“Please don’t eat me,” he whispered to Matthew, “I don’t wanna die.” Matthew chuffed, then dropped his head back to Clayton’s knee. Clayton exhaled slowly and brought his hand down to hover hesitantly over Matthew’s fur. “You gonna bite my arm off?” He snorted at that, and Clayton started hesitantly scratching.

“Okay Amos,” Clayton whispered, “you’re fine. You’re in a fucking cave, and there’s a fucking _bear_ that wants you to _pet him_. But this is fine, everything is _fine_.” He choked out a hysterical laugh, thunking his head back against the cave wall.

_Amos_ , Matthew thought. _Fuck, I forgot_.

This is who he was, then. A skinny, bruised boy who swore just as much as Clayton did. Matthew moved his head forward until he could feel Amos' ribs and was dismayed to find them poking prominently out from his skin underneath the thin shirt and vest.

_God, you’re far too skinny. Who’s feeding you?_

“Maybe you’re one of them circus bears,” Amos babbled, hands still trembling in Matthew’s fur. Matthew snorted at the thought. “Or maybe I’m just fucking crazy, who knows. I don’t even know how I fucking _got_ here, maybe I’ve finally lost it.” He looked down at Matthew. “Do you know how we got here?”

Matthew whined, and Amos laughed again, covering his face with one hand. “What am I _doing_?” he gasped. “It’s a fucking _bear_ , not a fucking person. It doesn’t fucking know.”

Matthew huffed and leaned up to lick his chin, grinning at the way Amos grimaced. It was exactly the same look Clayton would’ve given him, and Matthew couldn’t have been happier to see it.

“Fucking gross, bear,” Amos said, wiping his face with one over-sized sleeve. Matthew just chortled and licked him again, and Amos sputtered, shoving his head away harder now. Matthew let him, then buried his head in Amos’ chest, sighing contentedly when two skinny arms wrapped around his head. He couldn’t do much, but he was sure as shit going to do whatever he could to make sure Amos wasn’t scared anymore. And he suspected that much like Clayton, the best way to encourage him to receive comfort was to push until he finally accepted.

After a long moment Amos buried his face in Matthew’s fur, heaving shuddering breaths as he clutched at his head. Matthew didn’t move or make a sound, not wanting to interrupt the fragile moment. They stayed there, Matthew's head buried in his chest and Amos wrapped around him, until Amos stopped shaking; until he could hear the thud of his heart slow to something approaching a normal rhythm; until the scent of fear started to fade; until Amos finally pulled away, giving a shaky smile down at him.

“What now, bear?” Amos asked softly, wiping at his face with one baggy sleeve. “Think there’s a way out of here?”

Matthew snuffed and licked his face one last time, then stood and ventured closer to the pile of rocks blocking the mouth of the cave. Amos scrambled to his feet, immediately gripping the gun belt that threatened to slip from his hips.

“What the hell… these ain’t my guns,” Amos muttered, unholstering a pistol as he held the belt up with one hand. “These ain’t my fucking clothes either. I look like I’m wearing Pa's Sunday best, what the fuck.”

Matthew turned to watch Amos examine his clothes. He looked so _small_ in them, trousers and shirt pooling at the ankles and wrists, collar sagging against his collarbones. Amos shoved the sleeves up to his elbows, rolling them twice to keep them in place. Matthew saw more bruises around one wrist and forearm, and couldn’t contain the growl that bubbled forth. Amos didn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in trying to cinch the gunbelt tighter. It held, but barely, sagging low with the weight of the pistols, and Matthew felt the sudden urge to feed the boy as many meals as he could.

“What the fuck happened?” Amos muttered, coming to examine the rubble with Matthew. “I… I can’t even remember this morning, and now I’m here, with you, wearing some fancy asshole’s clothes…” Matthew chuffed at that, pawing at the stone closest to him.

_Some fancy asshole indeed._ Clayton and he rarely talked about their upbringings, but he was starting to suspect that Amos may have had even more impoverished beginnings than his own humble childhood. _That, or someone’s done a poor job of providing._

Matthew pawed at the rubble curiously. _Think I could probably move some of it, maybe get us out._ He glanced at Amos, then back at the wall, then looked around the cave. _He needs to stay back, though._

Matthew moved in front of Amos and shouldered him backwards, pushing him slowly but steadily towards the back of the cave.

“What the fuck, bear?”

Amos went easily, too small to have any chance of standing his ground against the giant werebear, almost tripping over his too-big boots as he went. When he was a good twenty feet from the rubble Matthew snorted in satisfaction and turned around, ambling back towards the wall. Only a second had passed when the thud of boots sounded behind him, echoing closer.

_Stubborn boy._ Matthew turned back and stopped him, pushing his head gently against his chest until Amos backed up to where he wanted him. _Stay._

He had barely turned around before he heard footsteps again. _Good Lord, you’re just as stubborn as a teen as you are as an adult._

He swung around and poked Amos in the belly with his snout, growling low in his throat. Amos stumbled backwards until his back thudded against the wall, face paling. He held trembling hands out in front of him, as though hoping to ward off attack.

“Don’t, don’t -"

_Shit._ Matthew chuffed lightly in what he hoped was a soothing manner, stepped closer, then licked his hand, leaving a slick trail of slobber. Then he grinned in the toothy way that only bears could, turned around, and walked away. Halfway across the cave he turned around and looked back. Amos gaped at him, and so he grinned again.

“Fuck you, bear,” Amos snarled, dropping to sit on the ground.

_Good. I can deal with a little swearing so long as you stay put._

* * *

There was silence for a while after that. Matthew finished his short trek to the wall and pawed at the rubble, shifting rocks this way and that as Amos watched and fumed. He worked quietly, internally cursing his lack of hands as he clumsily pulled rocks from the pile. _At least Clay… Amos isn’t trying to help anymore, I couldn’t live with myself if he got crushed by something falling. Maybe…_ he focused, and reached inside himself for that thread of human, and tried to shift – but nothing happened, and he was left just as furry as he had been at the start of all this. He growled and pulled at another rock, snarling his frustration at the wall.

“Hey bear!” Amos called as Matthew batted a smaller rock aside. Matthew snorted and looked back at him. He was leaning forward, arms on his knees, peering too intently at Matthew. “You understand me, don’t you?”

He chuffed. _Of course you’d notice that. Smart boy_.

“You push me back here so you can clear the way?” Matthew chuffed again, then turned around to continue working. “Fucking unbelievable,” Amos muttered behind him. “Stuck in a cave with a smart fucking bear and it won’t even let me help.”

Matthew chortled at that. _Figures that that’s what he’s pissed about._

He studied the rocks, trying to figure out if there was a better place to dig that his current method, which was pulling at whatever he could. It all seemed the same, so he reached up with one paw to a large rock in front of him and pulled downwards, growling as it refused to come loose. He set back on his haunches and pulled again, and something shifted. There was an ominous creaking sound, and he glanced up just in time to dodge a tumble of debris. Amos shouted, the wall creaked again, and he backed away, growling at the rocks threatening to come loose.

Thin fingers tangled in the fur at his shoulder and hauled backwards as another deluge of rocks slid down the wall. Amos' strength did little to move him, but Matthew followed willingly, turning and running back to the far side of the cave with the teenager. He looked back to see a large boulder land where he had been standing, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Holy _shit_ , bear,” Amos gasped, hands still buried in his fur. “Holy shit.” He slid down the wall to sit on the floor, and Matthew followed, crowding in close again as Amos started gasping in a way that usually indicated panic. He hauled Matthew’s head close to himself and buried his face in his fur. “Don’t fucking do that again,” he choked out. “Don’t you fucking get killed by rocks, you _stupid_ fucking bear.” He shook against Matthew, who whined and licked at his shoulder. The next words that came were just a whisper. “Don’t fucking leave me all alone.”

Matthew wished, not for the first time that day, that he could speak and offer Amos some reassurance. That he wasn’t going anywhere, that he wouldn’t die and leave him alone to rot in a cave. _Wish that at least I was some creature that could make softer sounds._ He tried his best for a soothing rumble, and hooked his snout over Amos’ shoulder, pulling him in as close as he could. Amos shuddered and clung on tighter.

Eventually Amos' panic waned, and Matthew lay down on the ground beside him, laying his head back in Amos' lap with a sigh. As much as he’d love to dig his way out, it looked like it wouldn’t be possible. _Not without two hands, at least._ And while he could take some hits and be fine, Amos didn’t know that, and was liable to try and keep him away from the wall. The worry that he’d been trying to shove to the back of his mind surged to the forefront, and he was suddenly glad that Amos couldn’t read it on his face.

_What are we going to do if the others don’t find us?_

* * *

They stayed like that, curled together on the floor, for what felt like forever. For his part, Amos stayed quiet, sitting with his hands in Matthew’s fur, stroking softly. Matthew tried his best to stay calm, figuring that it was the least he could do. _Not like I’m much good right now otherwise._

He wasn’t sure how long had passed when Arabella’s voice entered his mind.

“ _Reverend? Are you and Clay alright? We expected you to meet up with us an hour ago.”_

Relief washed through him, both at her cleverness for remembering the spell, and for the fact that it worked through thoughts and not speech. _Thank the Lord._

_“Arabella? We found a cave on East side of the hill, and went looking – the witch was here, but she trapped us inside. I can’t dig us out. Can you and the others come get us out?”_

A few moments passed before she spoke again. “ _We’re on our way. We may have to come back with shovels, but we’ll try. Aly has some dynamite that might work. Y’all aren’t injured, are you?”_

_”No no, nothing like that. She threw some spells at us though, I’m stuck in bear form. And Clay… I don’t know. She turned him into a teenager.”_

_“She **what?** ” _

_“… you’ll see when you get here. Just hurry, please?”_

Arabella huffed and he snorted out a laugh. ” _Fine. We’ll be there soon.”_

“You hear something, bear?” Amos said softly, stoking his ears, which Matthew just then noticed were cocked forward as though listening for something. He whined and relaxed again, rumbling as Amos scritched behind his ear.

“Think we’ll be stuck here forever?” Amos whispered again, peering down at Matthew. “Hope I don’t die stuck in a cave with a bear. No offense or nothin’. Just ain’t how I wanted to go.” He laughed, but Matthew could detect no humour in the sound. “Still, better way to go than my old man beating me to death, I’ll tell you that. Always thought that’s what would happen someday.”

All of Matthews worries were confirmed at once. Rage flashed in and Matthew growled, baring his teeth at the man who wasn’t even there, and may not be alive anymore. _Clayton, why didn’t you ever tell me?_ He'd had his suspicions, but never asked…

Amos grinned down at him. “You don’t like that, huh? Don’t worry too much, I’m gonna be gone soon anyway. Got a plan, got some boys to run with and we’re gonna get rich. Then I can leave, and never look back.”

_Oh, sweetheart._ Matthew’s heart seized as he suddenly realized what Amos meant, connecting the dots from what he knew of Clayton’s past and when he’d had to run. He’d just had no idea he had been so _young_ when he’d been framed.

Amos fell silent again, and Matthew tried to contain his anger, to smother it down so he wouldn’t scare Amos again. That would be the last thing they needed. _Later, you can look at it later. The bruises, the framing, all of it… just keep your cool, Mason._

* * *

It was another half hour, maybe longer, before the sound of faint yelling came through the rocks at the front of the cave. Matthew had almost expected Amos to fall asleep – Lord knows Clayton would’ve, with a bear in his lap and nowhere to go – but the teen had stayed almost unnervingly alert the entire time.

“Reverend, Clay, y’all in there?” Amos flinched as the sound of Aly’s voice came faintly but clearly through the wall. He scrambled to his feet and went closer to the sound, followed close by Matthew.

“Hello?” Amos shouted. “Aint no Preacher Clay in here, but I’m stuck, will you please get me out?”

A long moment passed before someone answered. “Is there a bear in there with you?” Arabella hollered this time, somehow louder than Aly's voice.

_Lord, the lungs on that woman,_ Matthew thought fondly.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” Amos yelled back.

There was a pause, then Arabella yelled again. “Uh, he’s our bear! We were lookin' for him!”

“I _knew_ you was a circus bear,” Amos muttered down to Matthew, who chuffed in response. “Too damn smart for any normal bear.”

“We’re gonna try and blast you out of there, okay kid?” Aly yelled. “Is there space for you to stand away from the rocks here?”

“Yeah, thirty feet or so!” Amos called, already backing away.

“Good! Go stand as far away as you can, I’m going to start it in one minute. Hide behind the bear, okay? He’s hearty, he can take a few hits.”

Amos ran to the back wall and huddled in the farthest corner, clamping his hands over his ears. Matthew crowded in close in front of him, shielding him with his body and praying they would be far enough away from the blast.

“Hope they’re right, please don’t die, okay?” Amos muttered, looking up at Matthew with sad eyes. “You’re a nice bear, I don’t want you to die.”

Matthew snuffed and licked his face, then pushed them both further into the corner, counting down the seconds in his mind. Just as he hit 65 the dynamite exploded, sending dust and debris ricocheting into the cavern. Amos flinched, and Matthew curled in as tight as he could, growling as flying rocks smacked against his back, some slicing under his fur like shrapnel. It hurt, but not worse than what he often received during one of their jobs with Swearengen. _At least I heal quick_ , he thought, glad that he had been shielding Amos.

Silence fell. Matthew snuffed at Amos then raised his head, turning to look at the smoke-filled entrance. Sunlight was already streaming in from the hole there, and the relief from earlier grew threefold. _Thank the Lord._

“Matthew! Clay!” Miriam’s voice rang out clear as day, and Matthew bellowed back. Amos flinched again, still curled in on himself, and Matthew huffed in apology, licking at his face. He finally looked up and saw the light, and his face crumpled.

“They did it, bear,” he whispered, staggering to his feet and clutching at Matthew’s fur. He schooled his face and grinned down at Matthew, who chuffed back.

“Matthew? Clay?” A figure appeared at the mouth of the cave, and Amos froze beside him, hand straying to his gun. “Y’all survive that blast?”

“We’re okay,” Amos called. Matthew started walking forward and he followed, fingers still tangled in his fur. “There’s no Clay or Matthew here though, unless that’s what you call your bear.”

Aly laughed and turned around, stepping back out of the cave. “Yeah, that’s what we call our bear alright. His name is the Reverend Matthew Mason.”

“Stupid name for a bear, but okay,” Amos muttered as they stepped out into the light.

The light was blinding. Matthew whined and closed his eyes, waiting for the sting to fade. Amos swore at his side, covering his face with one arm.

“Clayton?” Miriam asked. Matthew blinked open his eyes to see her walking closer, shock written on her face. Arabella was close behind with a similar expression, and Aly stood nearby surveying them with a contemplative look on his face. “What the hell happened?”

“I’ll be damned, you weren’t joking, Reverend.” Arabella muttered. Amos tensed and lowered his hand to his gun again, stepping behind Matthew. “He’s just a skinny thing, too.”

“Why the fuck're y’all lookin’ at me like that,” Amos snarled, glaring around at the group. His fingers tightened in Matthew’s fur, and Matthew leaned against his leg in what he hoped would be read as reassurance. “Who the hell is Clayton? An’ who the hell are all y’all, anyway? You don’t look like circus folks.”

“You don’t remember us,” Miriam said softly.

“We ain’t never met before, why the hell would I remember you?”

Aly stepped forward, a serious look on his face. “Amos Kinsley, right?”

Amos tensed, and Matthew turned and nosed his hand away from his gun, now fully between Amos and their friends.

“How the _fuck_ do you know my name?” Amos spat, shaking now. “That fucker Darren send you?”

Aly shook his head and stuck his hands in his pockets, away from his gun. “I don’t know who that is, son. You probably ain’t gonna believe this, but we know you, and you know us. Something happened to you, and you don’t remember us, but that’s okay. We ain’t gonna hurt you, okay? You have my word.”

“ _What_ happened?” Amos snarled. “Don’t feel like I got hit in the head or nothin’.”

Aly shrugged. “Don’t rightly know, that’s not my area. But if you give us some time we’ll figure it out, hopefully help you remember.”

Amos exhaled but didn’t relax. “Alright.”

Aly nodded and smiled. “Good. I’m Aly, this here is Miriam and Arabella. We’ll help get you sorted.” He looked to Matthew then. “Rev, can you shift?” Matthew growled and shook his head. “’Bella, you got anything to help with that? Maybe get the Reverend set to rights, then we can figure out the rest. Hard to go anywhere with a bear.”

Arabella was already digging through her bag. “Yeah, hold on.” She held up an amulet on a thin cord and approached Matthew, flashing a smile at Amos. “Miriam, can you get a blanket for the good Reverend? Maybe grab his spare clothes om his saddlebag, too.”

Amos tensed again as she came closer, but didn’t move away. Arabella knelt on the ground in front of Matthew and held up the amulet with a smile.

“Made this after that whole bird fiasco, in case anyone got cursed by accident. Real glad I did now, hopefully it’ll work on you. If it works you should shift right back.”

Matthew chuffed and snuffled her hand. She stroked his head with one hand, then pressed the amulet against his forehead. Miriam returned and dropped a bundle of clothes on the ground before holding out a blanket at the ready. Arabella looked to Amos.

“Step back, would you sweetie?”

Amos backed away slowly, and Matthew immediately felt the loss of his presence. But then Arabella was holding his head still and muttering arcane words, pressing the amulet tighter and tighter. He closed his eyes as the world spun, snarling at the energy that coursed through his body. The amulet pulsed, his forehead _burned_ , and then everything stopped at once.

“There,” Arabella said with a laugh as Matthew blinked human eyes open at her. Miriam tossed the blanket over his naked body and Matthew laughed, pulling it close around himself. “That’s one thing fixed.”

“I thank you, Arabella, that’s mighty ingenious,” Matthew said, grinning up at her.

“What the _fuck_.” Matthew glanced behind him to see Amos, face ashen, mouth twisted in a snarl, and gun leveled at Arabella and Matthew, clutched between two shaking hands. His heart sunk. _Shit_. “You’re a fucking _witch_.”

“Amos, just hold on a second,” Matthew said, turning around to face him. Amos’ face paled even further, and he stumbled backwards.

“And you were a fucking _bear_ , what the _FUCK_.” Aly stepped forward and he shifted his gun towards him. “Stay the fuck back, I ain’t going nowhere with no fucking witch, ain’t about to let her take my soul.”

“Now hold on, son, put that down before you hurt yourself.”

Amos snarled and cocked the pistol. “I ain’t your son. And keep your fucking hand away from your gun, I ain’t stupid.”

Matthew stood and wrapped the blanket more firmly around himself, then stepped closer to Amos. The gun shifted back to him, and Matthew forced himself to stay calm. _If he shoots, I’m the best one to take it_.

“Amos. I’m sorry we scared you. I really am a Reverend, that’s not just a name. Arabella’s not a witch. She uses magic, yes, but she’s not going to hurt you, or me, or anyone.”

Amos backed up further, shaking his head. He was pressed against the outer wall of the cave, shoulders drawn up around his ears. His hands were trembling harder now, and Matthew’s stomach churned with worry. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,” he whispered, eyes wide and bright.

Matthew stepped closer and held out a hand, voice low and soothing. “Exodus 22:18. The Lord also tells us that we shall not kill, and I like to think that’s the more important one.” He stepped closer again, and Amos shrank. He was almost close enough to grab the gun. “Come on, son. If I was going to hurt you, I would’ve back in that cave.”

Amos shifted the gun from Matthew’s heart to his face, and something in Matthew shifted. _Can’t heal from a shot to the head, Matthew_. His voice pitched lower, smoother, darker. “Best think real good about what you’re gonna do with that gun, boy. Now _put it down_.”

Amos dropped the gun with a cry, curling into a ball with his arms over his head. _Almost as if he expects to get hit_ , Matthew realized, that familiar rage filling his chest, at both himself and the man who made such a reaction instinctual. _You should’ve known_.

He stepped forward and picked up the gun, tossing it to Aly before kneeling down in front if Amos. “Clay -" he sighed and tried again, making his voice soft once more. “Amos. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Amos shook and curled up tighter, ducking his face into his knees. He reached out a hand to lay on his shoulder but paused as he got a glimpse of the forearm curled around Amos' head. Amos tensed and stopped breathing as the hand hovered over his shoulder, while Matthew stared transfixed at the clear shape of a thumb and forefingers printed on his skin. His blood boiled, and he forced himself to take a deep breathe, then drew back his hand. “Thank you for giving me the gun. I don’t want anyone getting hurt today.”

Soft footsteps came up behind him, then Miriam touched his shoulder, feather-light. “Reverend, why don’t you go get dressed while I see to Amos?” Matthew looked up at her and she raised an eyebrow, mouthing “ _go"_ as she nodded back towards Arabella. Matthew was suddenly vividly aware of his own nakedness, the breadth and height of his figure, and the threat he must pose in Amos’ mind. He nodded and stood, forcing in a deep breath.

“Alright. Thank you, Miss Miriam.”

Matthew stalked over to his clothes, vanishing into the nearby woods to pull them on hastily. _How could you lose control like that, Mason? You fucking **know** better, you’ve seen how fucking skittish he is_. He stood, shirt in hand, forcing himself not to punch the nearest tree in anger. _Lord, give me guidance_.

* * *

He returned just in time to see Amos handing over his second pistol to Miriam, a fearful expression on his face. Aly was conversing quietly with Arabella, both of their bodies angled so they could see and hear whatever happened on the other side of the clearing. Miriam said something and Amos nodded, then caught sight of Matthew. He scrambled to his feet, face once more arranged in the snarl that Matthew was seeing more and more as a mask to hide whatever fear lay underneath. He had a sudden flash of worry that the same was true for Clayton, that the snarl that so often emerged hid a fear that Matthew hadn’t ever noticed. _How long has he had to perfect it?_ he thought. _How could I not notice_? _I thought I could read him so well._

Matthew approached slowly, hands held out in a peaceful gesture. Amos tensed regardless, shoulders hunching in on himself. Miriam stood slowly, tucking the pistol into one of the many pockets of her dress.

“Ah, Reverend, glad to see you decent once more,” Miriam said with a smile, clearly trying to break the tense mood.

“Thank you, Miriam.” He forced himself into his kindest, meekest affectation and smiled at Amos. “Let’s try this again,” he said softly, “I’m the Reverend Matthew Mason. You don’t remember, but we’ve been friends for some time. A witch cursed you today, and that’s why you don’t remember how you got here. We've some experience fighting the occult as the good Lord intended, and we’d like to help you.”

“You always been a man?” Amos asked, posture loosening slightly. “She didn’t just turn some bear into a person?”

Matthew grinned at the idea. _Best not tell him being a bear is a regular occurrence for me_. “No, I’ve always been a man. The witch cursed me too, and Miss Arabella over there fixed me, bless her soul.” Amos nodded slowly. “Would you allow her to fix your curse, too?”

Amos looked at Matthew then at Arabella, then back again. “If she curses me, I’ll kill you both.” His snarl was undercut with a tremble in his voice that coloured the threat with fear.

Matthew nodded gravely. “As we would no doubt deserve. No curses will be laid, only lifted.” He looked back at Arabella, who was watching with one eyebrow raised. “You can lift the curse, right Arabella?”

She nodded and walked over slowly, projecting each movement. Amos watched her like a hawk. “I think so. This amulet was made for shifted forms, so it should do the trick. It won’t hurt to try, at least.”

Amos looked more doubtful at that, and she smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, it’s not going to hurt you.” She gestured to his forehead. “I need to press the amulet against your head. So I’m going to have to touch you, okay?”

Amos gritted his teeth but nodded tersely, and Arabella walked closer. Seeing her beside Amos made Matthew once again aware of how much smaller Amos was than his older counterpart; Arabella was taller than Amos by inches. She pressed the amulet to his forehead and wrapped her other hand gently around the back of his head, holding him in place when he flinched.

“Sorry,” she murmured, “you have to keep your head still or this could be bad. Okay?” Amos nodded, aborting the movement half way through to murmur a quiet affirmation.

“Good man,” Arabella said. Then she closed her eyes and focused, muttering arcane words that seemed to swirl through the air. Matthew shivered and prayed, hoping beyond hope that this would work.

A minute passed, Arabella’s words growing louder and louder until a loud _CRACK_ filled the air. Arabella cursed and dropped the amulet, shaking her hand in pain. Amos swore and slapped a hand to his forehead, backing away from her. She cursed again, and Matthew’s heart sank as Amos' mouth parted in a snarl.

Nothing had changed.

“What the fuck, nothing’s different,” Amos snarled, backing away from Arabella. “Thought you said that would fix whatever the fuck’s wrong with me. I still can’t remember _shit_.”

She shook her head in confusion, stooping to pick up the amulet. It was cracked clean in half, and she looked at it, then at Amos, then back at the rest of them. “That should have worked, I don’t know why it didn’t. I’m sorry, I thought… I thought that would work.”

“Well, shit,” Aly said with a sigh. Matthew couldn’t speak at all, mouth dry and chest tight as he kept his eyes on Amos. The teenager looked ready to bolt, and kept glancing at their guns as though considering if they’d use one on him if he ran.

“What now?” Miriam asked.

“Back to Deadwood, I suppose,” Arabella muttered, still staring at the amulet. “I’ll need my books, and more supplies. We could try and catch the witch, but…”

“That would take longer. She’s long gone by now.” Aly sighed and went to gather the horses. “Guess we're riding.”

Miriam looked at Amos. “Do you know how to ride, sugar?” He nodded, still hunched in on himself and scowling. “I’m sorry we couldn’t fix it, but we’ll get you set right as soon as we can.”

“Can’t I just go home?” Amos spat, glancing at the woods behind him. “I feel just fine, even if I don’t remember nothin'. Should be gettin' home before it’s too late anyway, Pa'll be furious enough as is.”

“Oh, no, honey, you can’t go home,” Miriam said softly. “At least, not the home you mean. Your home is with us now, has been for a while.”

Amos stood stock still, confusion plain on his face. “What? I live with you? Why’d I leave home?”

“You live with the Reverend, honey,” Miriam said gently. Fear flashed across Amos’ face quick as lightning before he schooled it into something more neutral, and Matthew felt something curdle in his gut. Miriam glanced at Matthew, then back at Amos. “Where do you think we are right now?”

“Texas,” Amos whispered. He wrapped his arms around himself, and Matthew itched to gather him into a hug. “Thought we were in Texas.”

“We're in South Dakota, Amos,” Miriam said softly. “The year is 1880.”

Amos laughed, and the moment of vulnerability was gone. “Well now I _know_ you’re fucking lying to me, it’s ’64.” He shook his head. “C’mon, if you’re gonna try and bullshit me at least pick something real.”

Matthew and Miriam exchanged a glance.

“She’s not lying, Amos. It’s 1880. The Clay – the Amos we know is thirty-two, somehow the witch made you a teenager again. We can show you a newspaper when we're back in town if you want us to prove it to you.”

Amos laughed again, quickly petering off as he noticed the serious looks on both their faces. “You’re serious. You’re really fucking serious.” Matthew nodded, and he started laughing again, quickly devolving into hysteria. “You’re telling me that I’m actually _thirty-two fucking years old_?” he grabbed at his clothes, his gunbelt. “Is that why nothing fucking fits? Oh my _God_ , what do I do now?” he covered his face with his hands, hysterical laughter breaking apart as tears ran down underneath his hands. “Oh my God, I can’t go home.”

Matthew’s heart broke. He crossed the clearing with quick strides and gathered Amos into his arms, holding his shaking form close. Amos sank into the hug, curling into Matthew’s embrace and burying his face in his chest. And for a brief moment, Matthew whispered that it would be okay. And for a brief moment, Amos let him. But only for a moment. Then Amos stiffened as he realized who was holding him. Before Matthew could even register what had happened Amos broke out of his hold with a snarl and stumbled backwards across the clearing.

“ _Don’t fucking touch me_ ,” he spat, swiping at his damp face with one trembling fist, the other raised in Matthew’s direction. “I don’t need fucking hug from you, preacher-man.”

Matthew held up his hands placatingly, trying to keep his face from breaking into sorrow and his hands from trembling at the jumble of emotions building in his chest. “My apologies. I should have asked.”

Miriam stepped forward and laid a hand on Matthew’s arm, directing her attention at Amos. “I know this all must be mighty confusing, sweetheart, but we only mean to help. And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that you can’t go home. But will you come with us? We’ll keep you safe until all of this gets figured out.”

“I don’t need you to keep me safe,” Amos spat. “Been keeping my own damn self safe for years.”

“You’re right,” she said softly. “You have been. We can give you a place to sleep, though, and good food.”

He hesitated, looking back and forth between them, then down at the ground, crossing his arms again.

“Fine. Ain’t got nowhere else to go, anyway.” He shut his eyes and dug his fingernails into one arm, sucking in a deep breath. When he looked up again all the previous sorrow and fear and rage was gone, and his face was blank. “Let’s go, then.”

Matthew frowned at the abrupt shift in demeanor, glancing at Miriam for guidance. She nodded back to where Aly was waiting with the horses.

“Why don’t you go on over to Aly, he’ll get you situated with your horse.”

Amos nodded and followed her direction, leaving a wide berth between them as he skirted around the edge of the clearing. Arabella bit her lip and looked at Matthew, then followed after, keeping some distance between them. Miriam watched them go, then turned to Matthew.

“You okay, honey?” she asked quietly.

He tried to smile but knew he failed miserably. “Best as I can be, I suppose.” Miriam just kept looking, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“It didn’t work, Miriam. It didn’t work.” He sucked in a deep breath. “What if…” he couldn’t even say the words. _What if my partner is gone, what if she can’t bring him back; what if he’s forever stuck as this scrappy teenage boy with too much fear and too much anger and not enough joy; what if, what if, what if. (What will become of me then?)_

“She’ll get him back, honey. She knows her stuff, she’ll get him back.” Miriam said softly. “And if worst comes to worst and she can’t, and we’ve tried everything we can, then Arabella and I will give him a home.”

Matthew gestured aimlessly, throat tight. “I could, I could take him in.” But even as he spoke he knew it was a lie.

Miriam shook her head with a sad smile. “No sweetie, you couldn’t. Maybe for a few days while we sort this out, sure. But long-term, it can’t be you. And that’s okay. It wouldn’t be right to either of you.”

She pulled Matthew into a hug, arms tight around his neck. He stooped and held her close, something in him settling at the contact.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispered into his ear. He nodded against her shoulder, squeezed her tight, then pulled away.

Miriam looked closely at his face once more, and smiled at whatever she saw. “C’mon, let’s go home. We’ve got a curse to break.”

* * *

By the time they made it back to Deadwood the moon was high, and exhaustion tugged at Matthew’s bones. The ride had been quiet, with none of the usual chatter that took place when they travelled, everyone keenly aware of the teen who rode with them in place of their gunslinging friend. At times it was hard to see his partner in the boy, and Matthew wondered how much of Amos Clayton had purged from his being. There were small mannerisms that were the same, like the way he clicked his tongue at his horse to get it moving, the way he hunched his too skinny shoulders, or the scowl he wore so well; but so much was different too. His accent was different, for one thing; softer, less enunciated, more drawl than the Clayton he knew. He startled more and spoke less, and was awkward in the way of a teenager still getting used to growing limbs.

_Wonder how old Clay was when he hit his growth spurt_ , Matthew wondered idly. _Wonder if it was when he finally started getting enough food._

They headed for the livery first. Amos stared around at the thoroughfare, taking in the saloons that were still loud despite the hour.

“You ever been to a place like this, son?” Matthew overheard Aly ask up ahead.

“Yeah, I’ve been places,” Amos said defensively. “And I ain’t your son.”

“My apologies,” Aly said with a grin. “Well, this here is Deadwood. Don’t stray too far from us while you’re here and you’ll be just fine.”

“Would be fine on my own if you’d give me back them guns,” Amos muttered as they pulled up at the livery. Aly snorted but deigned not to comment, ignoring the daggers Amos was now glaring at his back.

“Now that we’re here, we’ve got some decisions to make,” Miriam said, handing her reins over to a stableboy. “Amos, where would you like to stay the night? You can either stay with the Reverend or with Miss Arabella and I.”

Amos hesitated. “Can I stay with Mister Aly?”

Aly laughed. “The boy knows the best option!” He shook his head. “Sorry kid, I ain’t got space for you in my hotel room.”

Amos bit his lip, looking back and forth between Matthew and the two women. Matthew could practically hear the struggle in his mind; the Reverend or the witch? Finally he nodded at Matthew.

“The Reverend, I suppose.” He muttered something under his breath, and Matthew knew that he only caught it because of the superior hearing he retained even in human form. “Better the devil you know.”

* * *

The walk back to the parsonage was silent and tense. Matthew didn’t know what he could say to set Amos at ease, so he chose to stay quiet and hoped that his silence would help to ease Amos’ anxiety. He tried not to let his own mixed emotions of _fear sorrow guilt anxiety_ show, and tried to keep his shoulders relaxed and his face pleasant. _The last thing he needs is to know that this bothers you. Keep it together, you've done it before._

“Well, this is us,” he said as they arrived, needlessly gesturing to the parsonage. Amos just looked at him blankly until he gave a half-hearted smile and unlocked the door.

“Boots off, please,” he said as they stepped inside. Amos did as he was told quickly and quietly, then stood with his arms crossed, hunched to make himself smaller. He looked ready to bolt, and Matthew forced himself to smile in what he hoped was a soothing manner. _Just stay quiet and slow, like befriending a stray cat._

He crossed the room and gestured through one of the open doors.

“That's the bedroom, you’ll be staying in there. C’mon into the kitchen and I’ll scrounge us up some dinner, you must be hungry.”

Amos followed a few paces behind him, and Matthew apruptly realized that he was staying just out of arms reach. And now that he thought about it, had been ever since Matthew shifted back to his human form.

He gestured for Amos to sit at the table, then started going through their larder and pulling out an assortment of bread and butter, jam, honey, fruit and dried meat.

“Bread or biscuits?” he asked, pulling out plates and a knife.

The response was slow to come. “Bread.”

Matthew looked back at Amos, but the teen was studying the table, shoulders raised up around his ears. Amos’ stomach growled loud enough for Matthew to hear it, and he smiled at the sound.

“How about both?” He turned around and started slicing bread and slathering it with butter, then a healthy layer of honey. He paused, then added more honey before reaching for the biscuits. “I remember being a teenager, always feeling like I could eat a damn horse.”

“… I don’t need too much,” Amos muttered.

Matthew just hummed and kept piling food onto Amos' plate. “Maybe not, but it’s been a long day. If you can’t eat it all that’s fine.”

He brought the plate to the table, ignoring how Amos froze as he got closer, then retreated across the kitchen to make his own plate. When he finished and turned back around Amos hadn’t touched his plate at all, simply staring at it on the table in front of him.

“Not to your liking?” he asked, coming to sit at the table, sliding his chair back as far as he could go.

Amos tensed at the question. “Ain’t you gonna say grace?”

_Oh. Right._ Matthew raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to say grace?”

Amos hesitated. “Pa always says to wait till he says grace.”

“Well, here you can just go ahead and eat, no need to wait. If you want to say grace you can, I won’t stop you.”

Amos gave him a puzzled look. “You sure you’re a Reverend?”

Matthew laughed for the first time since this whole fiasco began. “Surely am,” he said with a grin. “Not like other preachers you know?”

Amos shook his head slowly. “Pa's a preacher, and he’d tan my hide if I forgot grace.” He tensed again as though expecting a blow to be summoned from the mere mention.

Matthew turned to his own meal and dug in, trying to steady his rage at Amos' father as things fell into place. _Clay never told me his Pa was a preacher_. “There will be no tanning of hides in this house. I can assure you of that.”

Amos didn’t respond. A minute passed, then he started picking at his food, keeping a watchful gaze on Matthew to guage his response. Matthew kept eating, and whatever restraint Amos had fled. He wolfed down the meal, one arm curled around his plate as if it might be stolen from him. Matthew kept his head down and his own pace steady, ignoring the hand that he saw slip a biscuit and some jerky into Amos' pocket. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d seen someone sneak away food for later, but it added to the growing list of marks against Amos' parents. _You don’t hide food when you know you’ll always have enough._

Amos cleared his plate first and sat fidgeting as Matthew ate.

“Would you like more?” Matthew asked, gesturing to the food still laid out on the counter. “You’re welcome to help yourself, seemed like you were hungry.”

Amos flushed. “No, thank-you.”

Matthew shrugged. “If you’re sure.” He watched Amos glance at the food, then back at him, before hunching in on himself again. _Right. Still hungry, then._

Matthew waited and hoped that Amos would take him up on his offer, but he still hadn’t moved by the time Matthew finished his plate. He stood and took Amos' plate, being careful to telegraph his movements. He dug around in the larder, grinning when he found the leftover pie he thought was still in there. He cut a large slice of Amos, adding more cheese and fruit to his plate, then cut a piece for himself, carrying both over to the table.

“Hope you’re not too hungry for some pie,” he said as he slid Amos his plate and dug into his own. “My Grandfather always said that you could never have apple pie without cheese, and I hold by that rule to this day.”

Amos quirked a smile before he took a bite, and Matthew smiled back. _Finally._

“This is good,” Amos said, sounding surprised. “Tastes almost like my Ma's.”

Matthew laughed. “That does make sense. You’re the one that made it.” Amos stared at him and he grinned back. “Believe it or not, you’re quite a wonderful cook when you get older.”

“Really? And I make you pie?”

Matthew hummed. “You do indeed.”

Amos finished his pie with a contemplative look, then finally made eye contact again. “Hey, where do I live normally? Can’t I just stay there?” The glare reemerged. “Y’all don’t trust me to be alone, is that it?”

“It’s not like that,” Matthew said tiredly. He had hoped they wouldn’t hit this topic of conversation. He hesitated and Amos just glared harder and crossed his arms. “You live here, with me. Thought Miss Miriam had mentioned that.”

Amos frowned. “Shit, yeah, she did. Forgot that I live here.” He looked around the kitchen, and Matthew could practically hear the calculations happening as he took in their small home. “But… but this is such a small house. You got another bedroom I ain't seen? Or do I sleep on the sofa?”

Matthew ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t, no. We uh. We share. A bedroom, that is.”

Amos stared, face going white as a sheet. “What.” Matthew tried to smile, and Amos gripped the edge of the table with white knuckles. “But only… we’re… we're -" he couldn’t choke out the words, and Matthew just nodded silently. “What the _fuck_. I ain’t, I ain’t no goddamn -”

He paled even further, and in a flash was up and across the room, grabbing the knife Matthew had left on the counter and pointing it at him with shaking hands. “You ain’t gonna _fucking touch me_ , you hear?!”

_Fuck. This is what I wanted to avoid._ Matthew leaned back in his chair and held up his hands as though surrendering.

“I won’t. I _won’t_ ,” he stressed when Amos snarled. “Son, you’re a goddamn teenager. You are _not_ the man I fell in love with. I’ll be taking the sofa. Here, just -" he fumbled with his coat and pulled out one of Clayton’s pistols that Miriam had passed off to him. He held it up by the barrel, then slid it across the floor to Amos, who scrambled to pick it up. Then it was aimed at him, steadier than before.

“Now, I would appreciate if you don’t kill me. But I ain’t ever gonna lay a hand on you, I swear.” Amos still looked so goddamn scared, so he kept talking. “The bedroom locks. You keep that gun, hell, keep the knife if you want too, and if I fucking ever try anything untoward, you damn well should kill me where I stand. Okay?”

Amos started shaking even harder. “Pa always said – he always said -" his voice fell to a whisper. “It’s an abomination. They should be put to death.”

Matthew almost cried. He had been so goddamn _lucky_ to have someone early on tell him that there was nothing wrong with his affections for men. But he knew the sort well, and remembered clearly Clayton’s fear before their relationship began that he would hold similar convictions because he was a man of the cloth.

“Amos. Son. You listen to me, okay?” Amos bit his lip hard enough to bleed, amd Matthew wanted nothing more than to wrap him up in his arms, even though he knew that would only make things a thousand times worse. He’d learned his lesson the last time. “I know that verse. And it’s wrong. Your father? Is so goddamn wrong. There’s nothing wrong with me, and nothing wrong with _you_. You hear me? We ain’t no goddamn _abominations_.”

“I ain’t, I ain’t like that, I -" he hitched in a shuddering breath, then wiped at his eyes.

“Okay,” Matthew said softly. “Okay, I’m not saying you are. But if you are, there ain’t nothing wrong with that. God loves you just as you are, you understand?”

Amos wiped at his eyes again and laughed. “You sure about that, preacher? Always figured he hates me.”

Matthew’s heart broke for what felt like the countless time that day. _How has Clayton hid this so well? How did he never tell me?_ He looked at the shaking, crying teenager and just shook his head.

“No, son. No, he doesn’t hate you. And I’m sorry for whoever made you think that.”

Amos laughed again and sank to the floor, curling in on himself, gun in his lap. Matthew looked at him for a moment, then left his chair to sit on the floor beside the table, taking care not to move any closer.

“Been a shitty day, huh?”

Amos nodded and cracked a weak smile, continuing to wipe at his eyes. “Ain’t been the best, no.”

Matthew exhaled and looked at the ceiling. “I don’t want you to think I’m ignoring this. Because I ain’t. We can talk about this till the sun rises if that’s what you need, and I’ll tell you that what we are ain’t wrong till it sticks.” He gestured at Amos. “But something tells me you’d rather have some space, maybe try and sleep if you can.”

Amos watched him for a long moment, then nodded. Blood started to trickled down his chin.

Matthew nodded back. “Let me grab a few things from the bedroom, then you can settle. I’ll leave out your nightclothes. They’ll be big, but better than what I got.” He touched his own lip. “You want a cloth for your lip?” Amos looked confused. “You’re bleeding.”

“Oh.” Amos swiped his sleeve across his lip. “Nah, it’s fine.”

“Alright. You change your mind, there are rags on the counter, you can use any of them.” Matthew stood and went to the doorway. He turned back and gestured to the larder. “And son? You ever want food, you just grab something. Okay?” He waited until he got a nod, then left the room.

* * *

_Matthew has a dream. Matthew has a dream, and in it he is 37 years old. He is 37 years old, and Clayton is 32. And they are in love, and they are building their life together. And as they watch the world turn around them, he pulls Clayton in close and presses a kiss to his hair, breathing in the scent of him. “Let’s stay this way forever,” he whispers. “Always,” Clayton whispers back, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Always and forever, love.”_

But then he wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated. Stay safe out there y’all, wishing you all well in quarantine <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Wow, I sure didn’t think it would be three months before the next chapter came out. Sorry y’all. From now on, expect an update every 2-3 months to be safe (sorry, I update sloooowly. This will hopefully change once I finish my other main chaptered WIP).
> 
> So ANYWAY. When I was planning out this chapter, the fic took a hard turn and now has some horror elements! (Because a de-aged fic wasn’t simple enough _shakes head at self_.) I don’t know exactly how much to expect in future chapters (I’ve never written a horror fic before? And don’t normally even read or watch horror?? So we’ll see!!), but please be aware and take care of yourselves as needed. 
> 
> From now on, if there are specific chapter warnings, I’ll be listing them in the author’s note at the end, to avoid giving spoilers to anyone who may not want them. Please jump there and read them if you need/want – take care of yourselves as you’re reading!! It’s always ok to nope out if you need to. 
> 
> The general warnings for mentions of child abuse, trauma, and graphic depictions of violence will still always apply. I’ve added a few tags as well (notably blood and gore, pls heed the gore tag for the love of god), so please heed those.  
> So – if you want more specific trigger warnings, jump to the author’s note at the end. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Matthew woke the next morning with a crick in his neck and the memory of the dream wrapped around him. He could amost feel Clayton’s embrace, the press of lips against his skin, the smell of his hair. Rolling over on the couch, he glanced at the locked door to their bedroom then covered his face with his hands as the tears that had been building since the night before finally spilled over.

_Fuck, I miss you so much._

He couldn’t remember the last time they’d actually been apart for longer than a few hours, and he felt Clayton’s absence keenly. It was somehow even worse knowing that Amos was in the next room, knowing that his partner was both here and very much _not here_ in a most terrible way. And as much as it was easier to view Amos as his own distinct person, completely separate from Clayton, there were so many small similarities acting as a constant reminder that they were the same person. Years apart, but at the core, still the same. He couldn’t help but constantly compare them in his head, constantly adding details about Amos to what he knew about Clayton.

_I never wanted to know about your past like **this**._

* * *

Matthew let himself cry. And then he got up, wiped his face, and started on breakfast. He lit the stove and put water on to boil, pulling out coffee, oats, and more honey. When everything was ready he knocked lightly on the bedroom door, calling out without waiting for any response.

“Amos, breakfast is on, come to the kitchen whenever you’re ready.”

He didn’t have long to wait. He had barely finished spooning the oats into two bowls when Amos slipped into the kitchen, still wearing the clothing from the night before, now significantly more rumpled. _Must’ve slept in his clothes._ He looked like he had just woken up, yawning and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Matthew smiled in greeting and handed over a bowl of oats, with a generous helping of honey.

“Coffee?”

“Please.” Amos' voice cracked, and he winced and flushed a deep red. Matthew grinned and held out his cup, already prepared with two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Amos took it gingerly, then sat at the table. Matthew picked up his own bowl and cup and followed suit. 

“Sleep well?”

“Yes, sir.”

Matthew choked on his coffee. He sputtered and coughed into his sleeve, shaking his head violently. “Lord, don’t call me that,” he wheezed, trying to catch his breath.

Amos looked alarmed, and shrank back in his chair. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Matthew said, coughing the rest of the coffee from his lungs. “Just – call me Matthew, or Reverend if you must. Alright?”

Amos nodded warily. “Alright.”

Just like the night before, he waited until Matthew had started eating and was focused away from him before he tucked in. He ate just as quickly too, only stopping to breathe once he’d scraped his bowl clean. Matthew kept his focus on his own meal, determined to help Amos feel as safe as he could during meals. And if that meant that Matthew didn’t sit too close or watch him, then that’s what would happen.

Amos sat back and held his coffee cup close to his chest, finally taking a sip. He frowned into it, then took another sip.

“… what’s in my coffee?”

Matthew looked up, puzzled. “Sugar? That’s how you like it, is it not?”

Amos looked confused. “I guess? We don’t have coffee too often, and Ma’d never let me into the sugar.” He took another assessing sip, then nodded. “Yeah, it’s good.” He sounded surprised, and Matthew was suddenly glad he’d made it like he always did. _This boy deserves things like sugar in his coffee_.

Matthew smiled. “Well, you certainly like it when you’re older.”

Amos smiled back. Then he tilted his head, drawing his cup to his chest like a protective shield. “What am I like? When I’m older, I mean.”

Matthew's smile softened. “Kind. Kinder than you like people to think you are. And a better man than _you_ think you are.” Amos didn’t react, so he continued. “You’re good with a pistol, with any weapon, really. You’re a good cook, and a better…” he hesitated, then said what he was going to say anyway, tone soft. _Fuck it, no point in beating around the bush._ “A better husband than I deserve.” 

Amos’ fingers tightened around his cup. He set his jaw and looked away, and Matthew thought the whole conversation would be done there. But then Amos grit his teeth and turned back, hunched around his coffee cup. “We’re married? We ain’t just…” he floundered, clearly not wanting to say what he was thinking.

“Living in sin?” Matthew supplied dryly. Amos swallowed but nodded. Matthew smiled, and counted it a win when he saw Amos’ hands relax. “Nah, we got married proper a little while back. Cla- older you made an honest man of me.”

Amos tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes in the way that Clayton did whenever he wanted to pick something apart. “You keep on almost calling him that. Or me that. ‘Clayton’. When did I change my name?”

_Well, fuck. Guess that’s one way to change the subject._

“Nothing gets by you, huh?” Amos waited, so Matthew sighed and sat back in his chair, toying with his own cup of coffee. “To be honest, I’m not exactly sure when you changed it. Long before I met you, I know that much. You go by Clayton Sharpe, now.”

Amos whispered the name, testing the shape of the syllables before looking back at Matthew. “Why’d I change it? I always… I always thought it’d be nice to get rid of the Kinsley name, but I don’t mind Amos so much.”

Matthew shook his head. “Sorry, son, I can’t answer that one for you either.” He kept his voice level, apologetic, hoping Amos wouldn’t notice the lie. He didn’t think it would be wise to tell Amos what would happen in his future, what drove him away from home and made him change his name. It wasn’t easy, carrying the weight of knowing you were a wanted man, and if he could spare Amos – even just for the short time he was with them – he would.

Amos frowned. “I ain’t ever told you?”

“Not really. Clayton never really wanted to talk about it, so I never pushed.” He tilted his head. “Is it less confusing for you if I call older you ‘Clayton’? Seems an easy way to differentiate between you two.”

Amos mulled it over. “Yeah, that seems good. Feels weird to be talkin’ about me like that anyway.”

“I know,” Matthew said softly. “It’s weird for me too.”

“Do you… do you know how my Ma and Pa are doin’?”

Matthew shook his head again. _Fuck, there’s so much we don’t talk about. Or not often enough, at least._ They’d talked about family, but Clayton was always quiet when it came to discussions of his parents, and Matthew had never wanted to push. From the bit he had gleaned from Amos, now he understood why.

“No, I don’t,” he said. “I don’t think Clayton has been in contact with them for… for a while. He didn’t really like to talk about it.”

Amos looked a mixture of relieved and disappointed.

“I’m sure they’re fine, though,” Matthew hastened to add. “From the little I know, they’re strong people.”

“Yeah, they are,” Amos said, looking down and scuffling his feet at the ground. “Ain’t worried about Pa.”

Matthew waited a beat, but nothing more came. “But you are worried about your Ma.”

Amos gave a tight nod, still staring down at the floor.

“I’m sorry, son,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “I’m sure she’s alright, though. I think Clayton would’ve told me if he’d learned otherwise, and from what I hear she’s a tough lady.”

That much, he knew. Clayton hadn’t ever told stories of his father, and he’d never asked why, assuming he had passed. But he did tell stories of his mother; not often, but often enough to know that she was resilient, just like her son.

“Yeah, she is.” Amos’ next words were quieter, almost as though said only for himself. “She’ll be alright.” He nodded to himself and took another sip of his coffee, gaze shifting out the window. 

Silence fell, contemplative and calm, not the tense silence that seemed to exist so often with Amos. It was good, nice almost, and Matthew was hesitant to break it. So he finished his oats, then settled back with his coffee, sipping it until he was down to the last dregs.

“I think it’s wise for us to head over and see if we can help Arabella with her research, if that’s alright with you,” Matthew said once he’d finished his mug.

Amos shrugged. “I ain’t got no plans.”

Matthew laughed and nodded. “Alright, then. Hopefully we’ll have some answers today, if the Lord is willing.” He gestured at Amos’ bowl. “Are you still hungry? Need anything else to eat?”

Amos shook his head silently.

“Alright. Well, I’m gonna go use the bedroom for a few minutes, get dressed and whatnot before doing up the dishes. You need anything you holler, alright? There’s more coffee if you want it, more sugar too.”

Matthew waited until Amos nodded, then stood up, chair scraping against the floorboards. He gathered his dishes and left them on the counter. “Just pile your dishes with mine when you’re done.”

Amos nodded again. Matthew smiled, and left the kitchen.

* * *

Once he was in the bedroom Matthew closed the door and leaned against it, thunking his head back against the door. _Fuck, this is exhausting, and it’s not even been a day yet._ He sighed, scrubbed at his face with his hands, and looked around the room.

The bed was made. And made almost perfectly, like he and Clayton made it every morning, not at all like what he’d expected it to look like if a sixteen year old boy had thrown it together haphazardly.

 _What on earth…_ Matthew frowned and walked over to it, running his hand along the covers. _Did he even sleep in the bed?_

He stared at it for another moment, then sighed again. _Ain’t much I can do about it if he didn’t. Just let it go, Matthew._

He poured water from the pitcher they kept on the dresser into the basin, then scrubbed at his face and hands. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he opened a drawer on their dresser and rifled through for clothing.

 _Shit, should probably ask Amos if he wants me to put something out for him to wear._ He shook his head at his own forgetfulness and left his clothes on the bed, heading for the kitchen. The faint sounds of rustling met his ears and Matthew smiled.

_Good. He’s actually getting more food like I said he could._

Matthew stuck his head into the kitchen and grinned at the sight of Amos, one biscuit in his mouth, another in his hand, poking around the larder. He laughed and leaned against the doorway.

“The oats weren’t quite enough, huh.”

Amos flinched and dropped the biscuit in his hand like it had scalded him. Matthew frowned, unease giving way to alarm as Amos spat out the biscuit in his mouth and placed it back on the counter, then hurriedly turned to face him. His face was sheet white, and his shoulders tensed up around his ears. When he spoke his words came fast and high.

“I’m sorry sir I -"

“Whoa, now.” Matthew held up a hand as he spoke and Amos froze, biting his lip. “Said you could help yourself to the larder, didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir.”

“None of that sir stuff,” he said, as gently as he could. “It’s just Matthew. Go on though, those biscuits are for eatin', please take them.”

Amos shook his head, eyes glued to the floor. “I’m fine.”

 _Shit._ Matthew stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to make himself smaller, aware of the way he filled the space. “You sure?”

Amos flinched again, then crossed his arms protectively in front of him and nodded. “Had enough at breakfast. Thank you. I didn’t mean to be greedy.”

Something occurred to him then, something that made him want to break every bone in Reverend Kinsley’s body. _Wonder if he’s been told he can take more before, then punished for his ‘greediness’. Fuck._

He forced his hands to unclench. “Amos, this ain’t a test. I ain’t gonna hurt you for eating more.”

Amos flinched again and he knew he’d hit the nail on the head.

“I ain’t _ever_ going to hurt you for taking more food. I’m not here to check up on you. I just came back to ask if you’d like me to set out some of Clayton’s – some clothing for you. But if you’d rather go through our drawers and find something for yourself, that’s fine.”

Amos gave no answer, eyes intent on the floor.

“What would you prefer?”

Amos jerked his gaze up to Matthew’s face, then back to the floor.

“Either is fine, si – Matthew.”

Matthew exhaled. “Alright. I’ll set out a few options, you don’t see anything you like feel free to go through the dresser, alright?”

Amos nodded.

“I’m going to go. I’ll be back in about ten minutes.” He gestured at the clock above the stove. “And I hope you’ll feel free to eat those biscuits, and anything else you like.”

Matthew turned and left the room. When he got to the bedroom he shut the door, sat on the bed, put his head in his hands, and tried not to cry. He counted out one minute, then two, and then set himself to dressing.

When he went back into the kitchen to fetch Amos, the biscuits were gone.

* * *

Within half an hour they were getting ready to leave the parsonage. Amos had dressed in the clothing Matthew set out for him, a pair of Clayton’s trousers and the smallest shirt and vest he could find. They hung on him just as badly as the suit he’d been wearing the day before, and he looked like a kid caught in an older brother’s hand-me-downs.

_I guess that’s a bit better than a kid playing dress up in his father’s clothes. But lord, he’s still too small._

Still, Amos looked more comfortable than he had the day before, and Matthew wisely ignored the way the shirtsleeves were rolled up at the cuffs so his hands were free. He passed Clayton’s boots to Amos as he grabbed his own, then frowned down at Amos’ feet.

“How did the boots fit yesterday?” he asked.

Amos shrugged. “Bit big, but they’ll be fine. I’m used to it.”

 _Of course you are._ Matthew frowned harder. “Well, how about some paper to stuff the toes with? Fill them out a bit until we can get you some that fit better?”

Amos nodded. “Sure. That’s what my ma normally does for me.”

Matthew nodded, and went over to his desk, rifling until he found some worn newspaper. “I remember when my mama used to do the same for me, when I got hand-me-downs from my big brother. You got an older sibling you get boots from too?”

“Nah,” Amos said. “I – Clayton ain’t ever told you that? I ain’t got no brothers or sisters. We just ain’t got a lotta money and Pa don’t wanna waste it on me, so Ma buys old boots from the family next door. They got a son who’s a year older than me.”

“Ah, of course.” _Doesn’t want to “waste it on me”. Fuck._ “Well, we’ll have to see if we can find you a pair that fit better if we don’t figure things out today. And some clothes, too.”

“It’s fine,” Amos mumbled. “I’m good with this.”

Matthew turned to him and arched an eyebrow. “Well, for my own peace of mind, then. It’ll make you look a bit less out of place.”

Amos bit his lip and nodded. “Alright.”

Once Amos’ boots were set Matthew went to the door and grabbed his leather coat, given to him by Clayton so long ago, and tugged it on. He looked back to see Amos eyeing Clayton’s leather duster.

“Here.” Matthew took it off the coatrack and held it out for Amos.

“I can wear it?” Amos asked unsurely, hands curling around the soft leather. 

Matthew smiled. “It’s yours, ain’t it?”

Amos nodded slowly. “I guess, I just – weren’t sure you’d want me to, now that I’m… not him. It looks real nice.”

“Even if you’re not him, it’s still yours. I know Clayton likes it, so it makes sense that you would too.”

Amos slipped the duster on. He smoothed a hand over the soft leather, thinly veiled pride and wonder on his face, then looked at Matthew. Matthew smiled and handed him Clayton’s hat, nodding when Amos settled it on his head.

“Can’t be out without your hat.”

The hat did complete the outfit, that much was true. But it also hid Amos’ features. Sort of. More accurately, it made him look even _younger,_ if that was possible. It emphasized the thinness of his face, and the way the coat hung on him.

Frankly, he looked _adorable_.

_I can’t wait to tease Clayton about all this when it’s over._

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s be on our way.”

* * *

Matthew led the way towards Arabella and Miriam’s house, taking them down side streets as long as he could until necessity called for them to traverse the busy thoroughfare. Amos followed close behind, sticking to Matthew’s shadow as Matthew smiled and waved to folks he knew along the way. No one questioned the youth following him, although Matthew pointedly ignored the raised eyebrow Celene gave as they passed her. Amos, for his part, didn’t seem to notice. He was staring wide-eyed at the buildings around them, the people, the overall busyness of the place.

“How long have I – has _Clayton_ lived here?” Amos asked as they passed the Sherriff’s.

“Year and a half? Two years? Somewhere thereabouts.” Matthew said. “Have to ask Arabella, she’s better with dates.”

“Did they move to town together?” Amos asked bewilderedly.

“Lord, no,” Matthew laughed. “No, we all arrived in town within a few months of each other, but met at… the same event, let’s say. Got hired to work a job together, and have stuck together since.”

“You have a job other than bein’ a preacher?”

“Sort of. It’s not all the time, just when I’m needed.”

Amos’ voice dropped in volume. “Like when you go huntin’ for a witch? Or was that your preacher’s duties? Don’t think Pa’s ever done that.”

 _Right._ “Yes, just like that. It’s not something most preachers do.”

“And is it what Clayton does too? Hunt witches? You work together, right? That’s why we were out in that cave together yesterday.”

Matthew smiled at the way the questions poured out. It seemed easier for Amos to ask questions like this, walking side by side with people all around, when he didn’t have all of Matthew’s attention on him. Perhaps it was less confrontational, perhaps the walking served as a distraction; Matthew wasn’t sure _why_ exactly, but he told himself to remember it regardless.

“Yes, we work together. And not just witches, we just… take care of any supernatural threats to the town.”

Amos stumbled a step. “Supernatural threats?”

Matthew nodded. “Yes, and sometimes the mundane threats as well. Bandits, wolves, the like. But sometimes… sometimes things that are unnatural. Evil, even. Things that want to hurt the good people here.”

“I bet my Pa’d love you.”

Matthew frowned. “And why do you say that?”

Amos shrugged. “You get to fight evil. I think it’s what he thinks he’s doing, with all his preaching and… and other stuff.”

Matthew looked at him sideways, then shook his head. “I don’t think he’d love me, precisely because of the other stuff.”

Amos shrank in on himself and fell back a step. “Right.”

Matthew glanced around them, then headed down the alley that led to Miriam and Arabella’s. “And no offense son – but from what you tell me, I don’t think I’d love him too much either. Any man who favours the rod, or who tells his child that he’s evil isn’t a good man in my books.”

Amos stopped in his tracks. “He ain’t – he ain’t done that.”

Matthew stopped and turned around with one eyebrow raised. “No?”

Amos squared himself, pulling his jaw tight and trying to seem bigger. “ _No._ He _ain’t._ ”

Matthew nodded. “Alright.” He turned around and kept walking. After a beat footsteps followed behind him. Mattthew glanced over his shoulder. “But if he has – and I’m not saying it’s happened, but if he has – then he ain’t a good man. That’s all.”

Amos said nothing. Matthew caught a glimpse of bony hands tugging down too-big shirt-sleeves out of the corner of his eye, as though Amos was trying to hide the clear hand-shaped bruises Matthew had seen there just the day before. His blood boiled again, but he kept his gaze ahead, his shoulders loose, his walk steady.

_Slowly, Matthew. Go slowly with this one. It’s gonna take time._

* * *

Miriam welcomed them into her home with a smile.

“Hello, sugar,” she said softly to Amos, leading them through the house after they removed their boots and coats. “How’re you holdin’ up?”

He ducked his head. “Hello, Miss Miriam. ‘M doin’ just fine.”

“Good,” she said. “And you, Reverend?”

“Good as always, Miss Miriam. How’re things coming along?” Matthew asked, hope swirling in his chest.

Miriam hesitated. “They’re… alright. Slow, as usual.” She shook her head. “I had to force Bella to sleep last night, she was up until well after midnight pouring over books. This is different than the last time.”

“The last time?” Amos interrupted. “This has happened before?”

_Fuck._

Miriam frowned. “Not like this, no. But you were turned into a bird for a few days by another magic user. The amulet Arabella had yesterday was meant to fix that sort of thing, but it clearly didn’t work for this – so we’re back at square one.”

“A bird.” Amos’ voice was flat. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

Matthew raised an eyebrow. “You already saw me shifting back from being a bear, is a bird that hard to believe?”

Amos blinked at him, then a blush spread across his cheeks. “Right. I kinda forgot about that.”

Matthew smiled. “Thought you might’ve. That’s alright, yesterday was a busy day.”

“But she don’t – she _doesn’t_ know how to fix this?”

Miriam shook her head slowly. “Not yet. I’m sorry, hon, it may take a few days.”

Amos nodded slowly, then stared at the floor, shoulders hunching towards his ears. “What will you do with me if she can’t find it? If you can’t fix me?”

Matthew froze, stopped in his tracks by the question he still didn’t want to think about. That was the question, wasn’t it? What if, what if, what if. He opened his mouth, floundering for an answer that wasn’t vehement denial.

Miriam answered first. “We’ll figure out a place for you, sugar. But it won’t come to that. Arabella’s brilliant, she’ll figure it out.”

Amos hesitated. “But what if it does? I ain’t…” He hunched in on himself even further, ducking his head to avoid eye contact. “Ain’t got nowhere else to go.”

_Fuck._

“No matter what happens, we won’t leave you alone,” Matthew said, as firmly as he could manage. “I know you don’t know us that well, but we’re here for you. Long as you want, you’ve got a place with us. Alright?”

Amos looked at him, then at Miriam, who nodded in agreement. He nodded back, slowly, then looked back at the floor.

“Alright.”

Matthew exchanged a quick glance with Miriam. She smiled reassuringly (and if the reassurance was for him or for Amos, Matthew couldn’t tell), then beckoned them into the parlour.

“In here.”

* * *

Aly was already in the parlour, sprawled in the corner of one of the sofas, while Arabella sat at the desk with a pile of books in front of her. She didn’t even look up, just waving a hand in greeting then continuing with her reading. Aly grinned and hefted the book he was perusing.

“Come to join the festivities?”

Matthew snorted and sat on the other end of the sofa. “Not sure I’d call them that, but yes.”

Amos waited until Matthew had sat down before perching on the edge of a tall, cushioned chair. He looked decidedly uncomfortable, holding himself unnaturally still in the way that Matthew remembered from when he was an awkward teen and liable to break everything he touched. He turned his attention to Arabella, who still hadn’t looked up from her books.

“Arabella?” he called, waiting to finish his question until she’d looked up from her book. “What do you want us looking for?”

She shoved her chair back from the desk, scooping a couple books off the top of the stack and crossing the room to them. She deposited two with Matthew, then another one to Aly, handing each of them a handwritten list as she did. “Y’all can start here. We’re looking for similar things as last time, I wrote it down in case you don’t remember. Any references to human transmogrification of any kind, as well as anything on age regression or fucking with time. Sorry, it’s kind of a broad descriptor, but it’s the best I’ve got right now.”

“Did you have anything for Amos to work on?” Miriam asked. She looked at Amos, who sat up even straighter. “If you want to help? It’s alright if you don’t.”

“Oh, right.” Arabella looked at Amos. “Do you want to help too? We could always use another set of eyes.”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure. Don’t really know what I’m looking for, though.”

Arabella’s smiled turned more genuine. “That’s alright. I can show you what I need, and if you find anything like it just let me know and I’ll take a look. Alright?”

He nodded, and Arabella flipped open the book then deposited it in his lap. She leaned against the arm, oblivious to the way Amos froze at the proximity.

“Here, you see this diagram here?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Arabella will do just fine. Just tell me if you find another one. And here –“ She left him and grabbed a piece of spare paper, pausing to scribble a list of words down on it. She brought it over, holding it out for Amos to take. “And if you find any of these words you tell me, alright?”

Amos nodded again, looking more and more apprehensive.

“And it ain’t a big deal if you miss anything,” Matthew said softly. Arabella nodded at his words. “We all miss things, sometimes.”

Amos frowned. “I don’t wanna fu - _mess_ this up.”

Matthew nodded. “I know. I understand the feeling. If it makes you feel better, this ain’t all on you – we’re all lookin’ for stuff, and we work with what we can find. Alright?”

Amos nodded, looking down at the page.

“And Amos? You can swear, it’s alright. These ladies have both said far worse themselves.”

Aly laughed, and Miriam swatted Matthew’s shoulder. Amos bit his lip to hide a smile.

“And we hear it everyday from your older counterpart,” Aly said with a grin, “so it’d be a bit weird if you toned it down. No offense.”

Amos nodded, looking down at the book and fidgeting with the list. “Alright.”

Arabella sat back at the desk. “Alright, enough chit-chat for me. Tell me if you find anything.”

“Will do, ‘Bella,” Matthew said. He looked at Amos. “You let me know if you need help, alright?”

Amos bristled like an offended alley cat. “I’ll be fine.”

Matthew nodded. “Never said you wouldn’t be. We all help each other out, needin’ help ain’t a weakness.”

Amos looked at him warily. “Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright.” Matthew cracked open his book, and that was that.

* * *

The morning continued on, each of them flipping through books and scouring the pages for mentions of transformations and transmogrifications. After about an hour Matthew noticed Amos stealing glances at the rest of them – at Miriam, curled up on a sofa with her feet tucked under her dress, a book balanced in her lap; at Matthew and Aly, sprawled across the sofa; and Arabella, hunched over in her desk chair, chewing on the end of a pencil. Some of the stiffness left his form as he gingerly settled back into the chair. Another minute passed, and he slowly slumped further into the chair in a manner much more befitting of a sixteen year old boy than the starched formality to his earlier pose. Matthew hid a smile, and returned to his reading. 

Another thirty minutes passed. Miriam stretched and stood, then looked over at Amos. He was staring out the window, the book forgotten in his lap.

“Amos, why don’t you come give me a hand in the kitchen?” she asked. “It’s about time for some refreshments, don’t you think?”

Amos nodded warily and stood, gingerly setting the book back on his chair before following Miriam out of the room. Matthew stared at his own book, straining to hear their conversation as they crossed the house. A minute passed, then another, and then he finally heard Miriam speak, accompanied by the clink of dishware and the smell of sweet tea and cherry pie.

“How was stayin’ with the Reverend?” Miriam asked.

“Fine.” Amos’ answer was short, then he sighed and said something too quietly for Matthew to hear. Matthew frowned and cocked his head, then jolted as Aly smacked him on the leg, startling him out of his eavesdropping.

“Ain’t your business, Matthew, you keep them bear ears to yourself.”

Matthew flushed. “I wasn’t –“

Aly laughed. “Uh huh, sure you weren’t. He’ll be fine, don’t need to be so protective.”

“I wasn’t being –“ Matthew frowned as Aly raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Alright, I was, I just… I just worry.”

Aly softened. “I know you do,” he said quietly. “This can’t be easy. How’re you holdin’ up, anyhow?”

Matthew shrugged. “About as well as can be expected. He’s…” he listened for a moment, then continued when he was sure that Amos was still in the kitchen. “He’s scared. Confused, angry, all of it. I haven’t told him much about… about Clayton. He doesn’t know about the bounty, but he figured out we’re… together. He wasn’t very happy about it."

“Guess that’d be a surprise for any teenager, findin’ out your married.”

Matthew grimaced. “Yeah. Although I think it was the whole ‘being married to another man’ part, and less the marriage itself. His father has some… very specific beliefs about that.”

“Ah. Right. Sorry, Matthew, didn’t even think of that.”

“That’s alright. It’s done now, and he was… less angry about it this morning.” _Less scared this morning, too._

“Well, that’s something, I suppose.” A moment passed before Aly spoke again. “And no tellin' him about bounty?”

Matthew shook his head. “No. I don’t think it’s wise, the murder hasn’t happened yet in his timeline. And I think we’re going to have to be gentle with him. He’s… he’s been hurt before.”

Aly nodded slowly. “That checks out. Is that somethin’ you knew about?”

Matthew shook his head. “Not for sure. We don’t… we don’t talk about it. Not really. Had my suspicions, but…” he cut himself off at the sound of footsteps. “They’re coming back”

Aly nodded. “Just remember that you ain’t alone in this, alright? We’re here too.”

Matthew’s heart swelled, and he swallowed to keep the emotions contained. Aly nudged his shoulder and Matthew smiled. “Thank you.”

Amos and Miriam swept back into the room, carrying a tray with cups and pie **,** and a large pitcher of sweet tea. Matthew and Aly put down their books and stretched as Miriam passed around plates and glasses laden with food and drink, nudging Arabella’s elbow until she’d accepted her portion **.** Matthew nodded his thanks subtly to Miriam when he noticed that she’d put a larger piece of pie on Amos’ plate than the rest of theirs.

_Good. Someone else figured out that he’s too damn skinny._

Their reprieve didn’t last long, and soon everyone was picking back up books and re-focusing. It was tedious work, slow and boring, but it was also so damn important. Every time he looked at the clock Matthew felt his own anxiety rise; it felt like they were racing against time, and that they were losing.

 _It’ll be fine,_ he tried to tell himself. _Take your time, slow is better than fast._

Amos looked bored out of his mind. He was still holding the books carefully, but his gaze kept wandering out the window, and he hadn’t flipped a page in a while.

 _That’s alright,_ Matthew thought. _Better that than feeling he’s gotta focus or he’ll get in trouble._

He re-focused on his own book, and the next time he looked over Amos was fast asleep, slumped in his chair. Matthew caught Miriam’s eye and nodded to him, grinning. Miriam bit her lip and smiled, then tiptoed over to steal his book before it slid to the floor. She set it on the footstool in front of him, slipping a bookmark in to keep his place.

 _I hope he’s feeling comfortable around us to fall asleep, and it ain’t just a sign of how bored he was,_ Matthew mused. _Guess only time will tell._

* * *

A knock on the door startled them out of their research some two hours later. Amos startled awake, hands gripping the chair as he jerked upright. Matthew hid his smile, and saw Aly do the same, raising his book in front of his face in a not-at-all suspicious manner. Miriam shook her head at their antics, then headed for the front door, opening it a moment after a second knock rang out.

Matthew tuned in to the conversation, frowning at the sound of Johnny’s voice. The frown deepened as the conversation continued, and he was staring at the doorway expectantly when Miriam returned. She raised an eyebrow in question and he nodded minutely. She sighed.

“That was Johnny,” she said when the others looked at her questioningly. “Swearengen wants us to come by. Probably wants us to check in about our situation yesterday.” She looked at Amos. “And,” she said slowly, “he wants us to bring you.”

“What? _Why_?” Aly asked, sitting up straighter. “Fuck, someone saw him with us, didn’t they.”

Miriam sighed. “We weren’t very subtle about leaving with – with older Amos, and coming back with a teenager.”

“Amos knows that he’s named Clayton when he’s older,” Matthew interjected. “We figured it’s easier on everyone to refer to Clayton as Clayton, and Amos as Amos.”

“Oh, that does make it much easier,” Miriam said, her shoulders relaxing. “I wasn’t sure what you two had discussed.” She looked at Arabella. “The two of _us_ had been thinking that maybe it would be a good idea for us to have a cover story of sorts.

 _Now why didn’t I think of that_?

Matthew nodded. “That’s a good idea. Amos, it might be wise for us to not use your name while you’re here – not your full one, at least. I don’t imagine you’ll be talking to a lot of folks besides us, but you never know. There are a few folks here who know who Clayton was, they might catch on that somethin’ is up, and I’m not sure how we’d explain the whole situation.”

Aly nodded. “That’s a good idea. He looks enough like Clayton that it may be an issue, though. We could say he’s family?”

Matthew looked at Amos with one eyebrow raised. Amos shrugged.

“Don’t matter to me. Might forget a new name, though.”

“Do you have any nicknames?” Matthew asked. “That could make it easier.”

Amos frowned. “Sort of? Some of the fellas used to call me Mossy when we was kids. Not so much anymore, but I never minded it.”

“Mossy?” Matthew grinned. _Oh, I’m going to have to ask Clay about that when he’s back._ “Why Mossy?”

“Just is, alright?” Amos bristled. Miriam interjected before Matthew could respond, ignoring the sudden tension in Amos’ form.

“What if we keep it simple?” she asked brightly. “If anyone asks, you’re Mossy Sharpe. Clayton’s nephew.”

Amos’ scowl dwindled and he shrugged again. “Sure. Fine by me.”

Matthew frowned. “Swearengen knows Clay’s old name, and knows that he changed it. Maybe… if he asks, Amos is a Kinsley, named after Clayton from… before. But we’re calling him Sharpe so no one picks up on that fact. Would that work?”

“Hopefully. But what’s the story for why he’s here?” Arabella asked. “Swearengen’s might ask what happened.”

Matthew groaned and slumped back in the couch, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Some day it would be nice to have someone hire us who ain’t so goddamn _nosey_.”

Aly laughed. “It would, but it ain’t gonna happen and you know it.”

“What about a sick family member?” Arabella suggested. “They need Clay back home?”

“That wouldn’t explain why they left Amos here,” Miriam muttered.

Arabella shook her head. “It might though. Let’s say his Ma’s sick, and she’s contagious. She gets Amos to come to Clayton for help, but tells Amos to stay here, so he doesn’t get sick as well. Clayton could be picking up medicine and taking it back to them, but it’s too risky for Amos to stay.”

Matthew nodded. “It’s as good an idea as any. Amos, does that sound ok?”

“’S fine.”

“You sure?”

Amos shrugged. “Ain’t a problem. I probably ain’t gonna be here long anyway, right? So whatever story y’all want me to follow don’t matter.”

Matthew frowned. “Alright.”

“It’s settled, then. Clayton is gone, we don’t know when he’ll be back, and Amos is staying indefinitely while his mama gets better.” Miriam paused. “And – a word of warning about Mister Swearengen, when you meet him. He’s…”

She floundered, and Aly stepped in.

“He’s an asshole,” he said, “and he’s crude as hell. And he’s in charge of this town, so we try not to piss him off too much. But he pays well.”

“Try not to engage with him,” Matthew said. “But be polite if he asks you questions.”

Amos scowled. “I ain’t stupid, I know how to _behave_.” He spat the word, and Matthew felt something twist in his gut.

_‘Behave’. Good Lord._

“I wasn’t trying to insinuate that you’re stupid,” Matthew said, voice calm and soft. “You’re a very bright young man. But Swearengen will try and push you, so don’t let him. Alright? Don’t engage if you don’t have to. That’s all I meant.”

“Fine.” Amos was still scowling, and a mix of worry and frustration built up in Matthew’s chest.

_That’s probably as good as I’ll get. Lord, but he’s stubborn._

“Thank you,” Matthew murmured. Then he turned to the rest of the room. “Shall we?”

****

* * *

Amos _stared_ as they entered the Gem, eyes going wide at the sights and sounds of the opulent saloon. It was a lot to see, Matthew would give him that; the gleaming wooden bar, the crowd of men gathered around the tables drinking and gaming, the girls sashaying around the saloon and watching from the inner balcony overlooking the lounge. Matthew caught movement out of the corner of his eye and watched as Anabelle waved at Aly, who threw her a wink in response. Johnny saw them coming and scrambled to grab a bottle of whiskey and some glasses, then darted for the stairs, nodding for them to follow.

He led them upstairs and into Swearengen’s office, placing the glasses and bottle on the desk before leaving with a stammered goodbye. Matthew nodded for Amos to take a seat at the back of the room, then placed himself front and centre. Swearengen raised an eyebrow, and Matthew raised one right back.

_Don’t fuck with me, Al. Not on this._

“So. Who’s the kid?” Swearengen asked. Matthew could practically _feel_ Amos bristle behind him.

_Great. Please, please for the love of God don’t start a fight with Swearengen, Amos._

“Good day to you too, Mister Swearengen. This is Mossy Sharpe. Clayton’s nephew.” Matthew said. “His ma’s unwell, he’s going to be staying with us for a time while Clayton takes care of her.”

Swearengen stared at him. “I was under the impression that you were hunting for a fucking witch yesterday, not facilitating a goddamn family reunion.”

“Now Mister Swearengen, this obviously wasn’t something we planned,” Miriam soothed. “And sometimes needs must. In this case, Mossy found us on the trail yesterday, and it was necessary for Clayton to go quickly.”

“Well, I had no idea Mister Sharpe was such a fucking family man **.** And will you be capable of doing your goddamn jobs without him?”

“It won’t be a problem,” Matthew said decisively. “The trail had run cold yesterday anyhow, we needed to come back here and regroup. We’re close, though.”

“Good. I need it fucking taken care of, and the sooner the better. Now.” His attention shifted, apparently appeased for the moment. “I had Johnny call you here because one of my men got word from a camp about an hour’s ride north that there’s been some weird shit goin’ on. Now normally that wouldn’t be my fucking problem, but something that close is going to make it’s way here. I don’t know if it’s the same weird shit as the other weird shit you were workin’ on, or if it’s new weird shit, but either way I need you to look into it.”

“Weird shit like what?” Aly asked.

“Weird shit like a man’s fucking _heart_ being cut out,” Swearengen snarked. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, and Matthew felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. “And not just one.”

“How many dead?” Arabella asked. “And how big of a camp are we talking?”

“Three dead so far. Last I heard there were around twenty, maybe thirty men, but people were leaving so who the fuck knows.”

“You sure it ain’t a job for Sherriff Bullock?” Aly asked dubiously. “Could just be a – a creative murderer.”

Swearengen leaned forward with a scowl. “Are you _doubting_ my fucking information, Mister Fogg? If I say it’s weird, then it’s _weird._ And even if it is just a fucking murderer, I’m still willing to pay for you fucks to go look into it. Your usual rate.”

“Which we’ll be happy to do,” Miriam said smoothly. “I’m in, at least.”

Aly and Matthew both nodded. _I don’t want to take time away from research, but if there’s any possibility connected to the witch… then we have to. We have to._

“Good.” Swearengen barely moved, but Matthew could’ve sworn that he relaxed.

_Interesting. He’s worried._

Swearengen nodded at Amos and sneered. “Do you need a fucking babysitter for your kid, or is _Mossy_ going with you?”

“We’ll decide if he’s coming along,” Matthew said. “With all due respect Mister Swearengen, but that ain’t your fucking business.”

“And I ain’t a fucking _kid_ ,” Amos snarled behind him.

 _For fuck’s sake._ Matthew glanced back at Amos, silently urging him to stay quiet, but Swearengen had already switched his focus.

Swearengen leaned back in his chair and scoffed. “Is that so? You even got hair on your balls yet, kid?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Amos spat. “I ain’t no fucking kid, I can fire a gun as good as any fucking man here.”

Swearengin grinned with too many teeth. “Well if you take over your good ol’ Uncle Clay’s position, you can have the fucking gold I promised him.”

He poured a shot of whiskey and shoved it across the table. “Here, kid. The same offering stands for you as for these other fine men and women – you can fuck any of my girls here, free of charge.” His grin widened. “They’ll make a proper man of you.”

_Oh for fuck’s sake._

“Good Lord.” Matthew cleared his throat. “He’s a bit young yet, but thank you for the – the generous offer, Mister Swearengen.”

Before Swearengen could respond, Amos had risen to his feet and approached.

“I done told you.” Amos picked up the shot glass and slammed back the whiskey, not even coughing as he swallowed it down. “I’m already a fucking man. And I don’t need your goddamn whores.”

Swearengen laughed, then pointed a finger at Amos. “I like you, kid. You’ve got _balls_.” He poured a shot for himself, then gestured at the door. “The offer stands. Now get the fuck out of my office.”

* * *

Matthew waited until they were out of Swearengen’s office before turning to Amos. “I thought I said not to provoke him,” he said quietly, so that they wouldn’t be overheard.

Amos glowered, crossing his arms defiantly. “He fucking started it.”

Matthew sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean you can just –“

“Reverend.” Miriam interrupted him, laying a hand on his arm. “Maybe this can wait until we’re somewhere more private?”

“Yes, you’re right,” he muttered. “Let’s go back to your house, pick up some supplies, then we can head out.”

“Want me to go pick up the horses and meet you there?” Aly asked.

“Sure. That’d save us some time.”

The rest of their group started in the direction of Arabella and Miriam’s house as Aly headed for the livery. They’d only gone a few steps, Amos pointedly avoiding Matthew and walking ahead, when Miriam tugged on Matthew’s arm.

“Walk with me, Reverend,” she murmured. Matthew slowed his steps obligingly as Miriam slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. She waited until Arabella and Amos were some few feet ahead before she spoke again, voice quiet so only he could hear. “Don’t get too upset with him, honey. That man is enough to get a rise out of anyone.”

Matthew sighed. “I know, I just…”

“Forgot how infuriating and impetuous teenagers are?” Miriam said drily.

Matthew smiled, then shook his head. “I just didn’t think Clayton could get even _more_ stubborn and infuriating.”

Miriam laughed. “Are we talkin’ about the same man? Because the Clayton I know is as stubborn as a mule, and just as liable to bite.” She patted Matthew’s arm. “It ain’t a surprise that he’s a bit… reactive as a young man.”

“You’re right. And it ain’t all on him, Swearegen… the _audacity_ of that man, he makes me furious at times.”

“He is rather inappropriate, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Matthew sighed again. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be either.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Reverend. It worked out fine in the end.”

“You’re right. Thank you, Miriam, your counsel is excellent as always.”

Miriam smiled and squeezed his elbow. “That’s why you keep me around, honey.”

* * *

They returned to the house in short order. Matthew called out to Amos as Arabella unlocked the door and stepped inside.

“Amos, a word.”

Amos ducked his head and nodded, waiting outside with his arms crossed and shoulders tense as the Miriam followed Arabella inside, eyebrows raised sternly at Matthew. As soon as the door was closed Amos was blurting out an apology.

“I’m _sorry_ , I just got angry, I –“

“You’re forgiven,” Matthew interrupted gently. “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have scolded you like that, you’re old enough to speak for yourself in a situation like that.”

“Oh.” Amos looked bewildered. “Okay.”

“Just be careful around him, alright? Mister Swearengen’s a powerful man, and getting on his bad side tends to go… poorly.”

Amos scuffed at the ground with his boot. “… I’ll try.”

Matthew smiled. “That’s all I ask. C’mon.” He led Amos around the back of the house, nodding at the woodpile heaped behind the house. “Now. I’d like to see you shoot before we leave, so I know you can handle the Colt you’ve got.”

“Why? Already said I know how to use a gun.”

Matthew nodded. “I know you did. But we’re heading into a potentially dangerous situation, and I’d like to see it for myself.”

Amos scowled. “That’s fucking stupid. If I say I can shoot, I can _shoot._ ”

“Look,” Matthew said. “You need to come with us. If you didn’t need to, I’d leave you here, no matter how good you can shoot.” He held up a hand when Amos opened his mouth, chest clenching at the way Amos immediately fell silent, shrinking back on himself. Matthew lowered his hand and continued, softer than before. “It’s not that I don’t trust you to stay on your own, or that I don’t trust you to watch my back. I’d be fine with either. But in case – in case we find the witch, it’d be better if you’re there. Maybe we can force her to fix you.“

Amos bit his lip and nodded.

“But it might go south, there’s always that possibility,” Matthew continued. “And I _need_ to know that you’ll be fine with your gun if that happens. Alright? It’s not because I don’t believe you, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t see you shoot first.”

Matthew waited, hands in his pockets, until Amos sighed and nodded. He unloaded the colt with exaggerated movements, staring pointedly at Matthew the whole time. Once he had re-loaded it he huffed and focused on the wood pile, then shot twice it.

“There. You fucking happy?” he snarked. Matthew beamed at him, just managing not to laugh when Amos rolled his eyes.

“Thank you, son. Let’s get ready to go, then.”

* * *

It didn’t take them long to suit up, or for Aly to bring their usual five horses around to the ladies’ house. Matthew and Miriam had put together a hasty meal, and after they scarfed it down they rode for the camp.

The ride was slow, and _hot_ , and Matthew hadn’t felt so antsy heading for a job since they first met. He was growing increasingly frustrated with the trip, and with how every minute was a minute they weren’t spending on research. He almost wished that Arabella had stayed behind to continue trying to find a counter to the… to the _curse,_ that’s what this was, even if he didn’t want to call it as such.

_Maybe she’d actually find something, maybe this makes our search take even longer, maybe…_

“This feels fucking pointless,” Matthew muttered to Arabella, who had reigned her horse back to keep pace with his. “We shouldn’t even be going out here, it’s a waste of time that we could be spent on getting Clayton back.”

“I know,” Arabella said. She sounded just as frustrated as he felt, and Matthew was abruptly reminded of both how she hated having an unsolved mystery, and how much she cared for Clayton too. “I just hope this is worth it. Who knows, maybe it’s actually her, maybe this’ll give us more leads.”

Matthew didn’t say what he knew both of them were thinking. _It doesn’t sound like the witch. Not at all._ But they couldn’t pass up the possibility, the _what if_ , in case it led to something.

_Something that will fix Clayton._

“Clay’d want us to look into this,” Matthew said with a sigh. “He wouldn’t let this one sit, not if people were getting hurt.”

“You’re right,” she said, just as soft. “He wouldn’t. He’s good like that.”

Matthew looked at her. “It’s ok to miss him, you know.”

Arabella bit her lip. “It’s not that. I do miss him, and I want him back, but… but moreso I wish I’d been able to get him back yesterday. The amulet should have _worked_ , and I can’t parse out why it didn’t.”

“Hey,” Matthew said softly. “It’s not your fault. Alright? Clayton wouldn’t think so, and none of us do either.”

Arabella was silent for a long minute. Finally she nodded. “Alright. Thank you, Matthew.”

“You’re welcome, ‘Bella. Thank you, for all you’re doing to get him back.”

“My pleasure.” Arabella’s smile was tight and worried. “I just hope it’s enough.”

* * *

Finally the small mining camp came into view. Matthew sat up taller in the saddle and stretched, then rested his hand on the shotgun slung across his chest.

“Thank the Lord.”

As they rode closer, they could see exactly how small the camp was. Canvas tents were scattered about, and a heavy iron pot sat over the dark fireplace. Tools and equipment were piled together in one corner of the camp next to a stack of firewood, laundry fluttered in the wind from where it hung on a clothesline strung between trees.

All in all, a normal sight. Almost.

The first thing Matthew noticed as he scanned the camp was the complete absence of signs of life. He couldn’t hear or see any of the people he’d expected to be there. Everything was quiet, even the birds they’d been hearing on their ride had gone totally silent.

_Or they left._

The wind was to his back, making it impossible for him to have smelled anything on their approach.

_But maybe now that I’m this close…_

Matthew sniffed the air, trying to keep it subtle so that Amos wouldn’t notice, and almost gagged. The air _reeked_ of blood, the heavy tang of iron flooding his nose and sitting heavy on his tongue.

“Something’s wrong,” he muttered. He looked at the tents as they rode closer, trying to catch a glimpse of the blood that he knew had to be _somewhere._ His stomach twisted at the sight of something dark splattered across the side of the canvas tent. It was _off_ , almost as if…

 _As if it’s on the inside of the tent. Fuck._

“Yeah. It’s too damn quiet.” Aly looked at Matthew and nodded at one of the tents. “You wanna check out that one, and I’ll get this one?”

Matthew nodded. “Alright.” He dismounted and handed his reins to Arabella, then motioned to the others to stay back. “Have your guns ready,” he whispered, raising his own pistol. “I smell blood.”

Matthew walked forwards as quietly as he could, hyper-alert for any sign of movement. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miriam step subtly in front of Amos, her gun held at the ready, and he felt himself settle. 

_Good._

The closer he got to the mouth of the tent, the stronger the stench of blood became, mingling with the scent of rot until Matthew could barely bring himself to breathe. The air _tasted_ of it, in a way that Matthew hadn’t experienced in a long time.

_Not long enough. I hoped I’d never have to smell this again, not since…_

Matthew shoved away the echoes of the past that the scent brought with it, the memories of blood and fire and _death._ The impulse to gag warred strongly with the instinct to snarl, to _shift_ and bring out his claws, his teeth, anything that would be better suited to a fight than his softer-skinned human form. He forced himself to stay human, reminding himself of Amos who was close behind and watching intently.

 _You’ll scare him. And that’s the last thing we need right now._

Then he was at the entrance of the tent, and there was no turning back. Matthew glanced over at Aly, who nodded. Matthew nodded back, then pushed at the tent flap. A burst of heat and stench wafted out, and the gag he’d been suppressing sprang back into his throat. Eyes watering and heart pounding, he pushed the filthy tent flap further open, peering inside.

“Good _Lord_ …”

The inside of the tent was _dripping_ with blood. It pooled in dark smears under bedrolls and on the grass, and streaked and splattered along the heavy canvass walls of the tent. Flies buzzed about, landing and floating on corpses that lay strewn across the floor. He counted three men, all wearing blood-soaked sleep clothes, lying sprawled on filthy bedrolls, bedding twisted around them. They were _covered_ in what looked almost like claw marks, deep cuts and gouges scattered across their bodies. Matthew caught a glimpse of one man’s chest and his stomach flipped.

_His heart is gone. Fuck. What the hell did this?_

“They’re dead,” he called out behind him. “All of them. Fuck.”

“Reverend?” Matthew pulled his head out of the tent to look over at Aly. He was staring inside the other tent, jaw tight and voice cold, and Matthew’s stomach dropped. “You should come see this.”

_There are more? Isn’t this bad enough?_

Matthew walked over to Aly on numb legs, already knowing what he would find when he peered through flap of the canvas tent. He was met by the same gory mess from the other tent, the same smear of blood and viscera, the same overpowering scent of blood and guts and _death._

Here, though. Here the bodies still lay on their bedrolls, but they had been _moved_ , pushed far into the sides of the tent in neat rows. Here their placement felt _intentional_ , thick smears of blood along the ground indicating they’d been dragged, none of the haphazard placement of bodies and bedrolls from the other tent. And here…

It took him a moment to focus through the gore and see it. Another body, clearly set on display for whoever found it. It was sitting in the centre of the tent, propped up against one of the wooden tent posts, with both hands folded neatly in it’s lap. It’s head was _gone_ , severed cleanly at the neck. Matthew’s eyes trailed to it’s chest, to the dark, bloody wound and torn clothing, and knew without coming any closer that the heart was gone too.

_What the **fuck**._

He swallowed, nausea pushing at his throat, and gripped the gun tighter. He scanned the body, looking for anything else that was… missing. Any other signs that this body had been mutilated, or for anything that made it different from the men pushed aside, or left to die like the others.

He didn’t find any other signs of mutilation. But he _did_ notice the narrowness of the frame, the blood-soaked clothing that was just a bit too short in the legs and sleeves, and the way _this_ body was a good deal smaller than the others. Horror rose in his chest at the implications of what he was seeing.

It was a goddamn _teenager_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter include – a mass killing, lots of blood, gore, descriptions of dead bodies, description of the body of a teenager who’s head and heart have both been removed (neither of which occur on screen). All of the violence in this chapter occurs off-screen. Also warning for Al Swearengen being crude as fuck. 
> 
> \--
> 
> Oh boy oh boy. Ten dinosaur points to whoever guesses what creature/thing they’ve stumbled across. Thanks for reading, hope y’all enjoyed (and weren’t too thrown off by the change in direction)! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated <3
> 
> You can also find me on the tumblr [here](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Pokes head out from the pile of other WIPs she’s been working on_ Hello folks! 
> 
> Wow, only _checks calendar_ uuuuh six months between updates! Whoops. That thing, that I said last time, about chapters updating every 2-3 months? Sorry about that. Seems like chapters will happen whenever they want to happen.
> 
> Anyway – thanks to y’all who have waited so patiently!! This chapter is over 12,000 words, so hopefully that makes up for it a bit. And to everyone who has left kudos or comments, thank you!! I really loved hearing all your guesses about what they’re facing. 
> 
> Big thanks to afearsomecritter for their help with this chapter!! It is at least 30% spookier thanks to their suggestions. 
> 
> Chapter warnings can be found in the end note. I will give the general warning again that this is now firmly in the realm of horror fics, as per the tags. Please take care of yourselves accordingly.
> 
> Enjoy!

The reek of blood filled Matthew’s senses, coating everything. He couldn’t look away from the boy sitting on the ground, hands laid calmly in his lap, sleep clothes drenched in blood. In any other circumstance, it would have been serene; but the hole in his chest and the bloody stump of a neck destroyed any semblance of peace that he may have found in death.

“What is it?”

Miriam’s voice was closer than before, but Matthew couldn’t turn around, couldn’t tear his gaze away.

 _Where is his head, where… where is his **heart**_. _Where are any of their hearts…_

“They’re dead,” Aly said, loud enough that Matthew was sure Arabella and Amos could hear it too. “Everyone in here. It… it ain’t a pretty sight.”

“Let me see,” Miriam said, voice all quiet steel. “I’ll be just fine, Aloysius…” Her voice broke off into a sharp inhale as she stepped beside Matthew, peering into the tent. “Good lord,” she murmured. “What…”

Miriam’s arm brushed his. Matthew shook his head and stepped back, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise. He let the bloody tent flap slip from his fingers. It smacked back into place, heavy with tacky dried blood. “We have to check the other tents. If there are survivors...”

“There won’t be.” Arabella’s voice was quiet, but hard as flint as she stared into the tent from a foot behind him. Matthew hadn’t even heard her come up. “If there were, they’re long gone by now.”

They were too late. They were too goddamn late, and now people were dead, a goddamn _teenager_ was dead –

Matthew felt sick.

_We could have stopped this._

And then he felt _angry_ , furious at the carnage before them, furious at the immense loss of life. Furious at the world, at Swearengen for not asking for help sooner, at God for allowing it to happen. The bear in him was roaring, scared and sick and so, so angry.

He turned, looking towards the other tents, just in time to see Amos draw back the flap to the first tent, the one Matthew had checked beforehand. Matthew was moving before he realized it, trying to stop him from seeing –

But it was too late, and the horror was already registering on Amos’ face. He went pale, eyes wide, whole body freezing in place. Matthew still remembered what it was like, seeing death like this for the first time. He remembered stumbling over bodies in the dark, nearly slipping in the blood and guts as he ran from the fort, the screams of horror and the snarls of creatures that should not have existed echoing behind him. 

_You never forget something like this._

He knew that Clayton had been witness to scenes like this before. Hell, they’d both seen the mass grave at their first job, the bodies bitten to death by snakes and left to bloat in the sun. They knew the stench of death, and this… this was different. Clayton would have been able to stomach it, he always was, but… but Amos wasn’t Clayton, not yet. And god, he was so _young_. If there was any chance of shielding him from experiencing this, Matthew would have taken it.

Now, though, all that was left was offering comfort, and preventing him from seeing the full extent of the slaughter. Matthew came up beside Amos and put a hand on his shoulder, pulling him gently away. The tent flap dropped closed as Amos jerked out of his hold, flinching back three steps and staring at Matthew with wide eyes.

“Amos,” Matthew said as gently as he could, the anger shifting to furious protectiveness, hands held up to guide him away. “It’s just me. You - you don’t need to see this.”

Amos shook his head, wrapping his arms tightly around himself. Footsteps echoed behind Matthew, then Aly was beside him, voice quiet but leaving no room for disagreement. “Come on, kid. Come help me with the horses. Someone needs to keep ‘em calm, with all the blood on the wind.”

“I can –“ Amos’ voice was small, and Matthew watched as Aly shook his head firmly. He stepped between Amos and Matthew, then put a hand out and guided Amos gently around. Amos let him, only flinching the smallest amount at the touch on his shoulder as they turned back towards the horses.

“I’m sure you can,” Aly said, not even bothering to clarify or wait for whatever came next. “But you’ll be more help if you keep the horses from runnin’ away on us, or breakin’ a leg tryin’ to run with the hobbles on. Alright?”

Amos finally nodded, shooting one frightened glance back over his shoulder as they walked away. Matthew tried to smile reasurringly, but he was certain it fell flat.

He turned back to Miriam and Arabella, letting Aly take over. His nerves were raw, the protective fury still swirling in his chest, and he knew that the sort of comfort he wanted, no _needed_ to provide wouldn’t have been accepted. Amos wouldn’t let him wrap him up in a hug, and he sure as shit didn’t need Matthew hovering over him when he was this angry, even if the anger wasn’t directed at him. And Matthew knew why, he did, but it didn’t change the instinct.

The urge to shift needled at him insistently. Matthew did his best to ignore it, and turned back to his companions.

“This was a slaughter,” he said as quietly as he could. “I hardly even saw signs of a struggle. Minimal furniture overturned, no weapons out, nothing broken. At least not to the extent of a significant fight. Whoever – _whatever_ did this, they were quick.” 00

“I’m willing to bet that they were killed while they were sleeping,” Arabella muttered. “Or when most of them were. The men I saw were in their sleep clothes.”

“We need to check the other tents,” Matthew said. “Even if we’re sure they’re all dead, we still have to.”

Arabella nodded. “We should see if we can’t find any signs pointing to who did this. Or of… anything, really. Signs of magic, especially. This… doesn’t feel right.”

“Do you think it was our witch?” Miriam asked, keeping her voice pitched low so it wouldn’t carry.

“I don’t know,” Arabella said. “It doesn’t seem to fit what we know about her, but it could be. We need to look for other things too – footprints, notes, anything that might give us a clue.”

“Will we even be able to tell anything under all that goddamn blood?” Miriam asked. “It’s – there’s so _much_.”

“We have to try,” Matthew said with more certainty than he felt. “We have to – if there’s a chance we can find _anything_ that will help us find whatever did this...”

“There’s a strong possibility it’s a group,” Arabella said, as Aly stepped back into their small circle. “That many bodies – I mean, it’s _possible_ that it was just one creature, but…”

But it was unlikely. And that made this all the more dangerous.

Matthew sighed, took off his jacket, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Alright. Let’s start looking.”

* * *

Matthew’s boots squelched in the bloody grass as he picked his way slowly through yet another tent filled with corpses. They’d been looking for over half an hour, picking their way slowly through each one in turn. But they were nearly done, and Matthew couldn’t have been happier.

True to Arabella’s prediction, every last person they’d found was dead. And each corpse was missing its heart, only a gaping wound in the middle of their chest left where the heart should have been. Matthew was sure that the sight of the wounds, massive, bloody, ribs cracked and broken open, would be seared into his mind forever.

He stepped carefully around the guts of one man who lay dead on his bedroll, then batted a fly from his face. They were everywhere, the only other living thing around. The birds were still absent, and it only heightened his unease at the entire situation. He crouched down and prodded the man’s bag with a stick, grimacing at the blood that had seeped through the bottom, coating the contents from the inside. There was so much of it, splattered across the tent walls, seeped across the dirt and trampled grass that made up the floor, coagulating thick and tar-like in pools under the corpses.

He swallowed down the bile that kept threatening to rise, and tried to lift aside a dime novel with his stick. Just clothing, a water skin, a small bundle of what felt like gold. A tiny picture in a frame, of a pretty woman looking at the camera.

_God. Who’s going to tell her?_

“Anything?” Arabella asked, sticking her head in through the tent flaps.

Matthew sighed and shook his head, pushing himself back to standing. “Not that I can see. Just more bodies, more blood.”

Arabella crouched beside the corpse and examined it. “The thing I don’t get,” she said slowly, “is what it wants with the hearts. It clearly took them after it had already killed them.”

“How do you figure?”

She gestured at the innards. “You wouldn’t eviscerate a man _after_ tearing his heart out. There’d be no need.”

“That’s true.” Matthew looked at the other men and shook his head. “I don’t get why there’s not more signs of a struggle. Some of their eyes are open, like they were awake and…” his skin crawled as he realized something. He stepped past Arabella, moving back to stand at the mouth of the tent. Every corpse, every man in the tent, was staring at him. There were three, here, all on their bedrolls, all facing him. Each of their faces was frozen in horror, but beyond that…

Beyond that, they were sprawled as if he’d found them in their sleep. One man was curled up on his side, arm tucked under his head. Another lay on his front, arms loose and relaxed, head nestled in his pillow, back carved open and spine on display from where his heart had been cut out. The third was also on his side, a pillow cuddled in his arms. But each of their faces was turned to the door, and each one was stuck in an expression of horror.

_They were so afraid…_

“They saw it come in,” Matthew realized. “They looked at it, they were _afraid_ of it… why didn’t they fight it?”

Arabella frowned and came to stand beside him, sucking in a breath as she saw what he did. “What the hell… how did I not notice…”

Matthew shook his head, mouth pinched shut. “I didn’t either. We have to check, see if the others…”

Arabella nodded, and led the way.

* * *

They went to the next tent, calling across to Aly and Miriam to let them know what they were looking for. It showed the same thing; men, killed seemingly in the same positions they were sleeping in, eyes open and staring at the door, faces frozen in fear. Then, they doubled back, starting over to see what they’d missed. Each tent showed a similar scene. Dead men, frozen in place. In one of them, however, one that Aly and Miriam had checked, there was something different.

One of the men there had a knife in his hand, and was crumpled in the middle of the tent, sprawled across the legs of another man like he’d fallen there. His face held the same horror, but it held rage too, and determination. The face of a man determined to fight, to live another day.

But there was no sign of why this man, alone, had been able to fight. Arabella searched his body for talismans, signs of magical protection, and found nothing.

Finally there was only one tent left to check. The one with the dead boy, the one all of them had been avoiding.

They stepped through it carefully, examining the bodies and the bags of belongings that were shoved to the edges of the tent. It was harder to tell what exactly had happened, here. The bodies had clearly been moved, shoved aside to make the boy the centre of attention. But Matthew did find one man with a gun in his hand, a sign that he had tried to fight, too.

And the _boy._ The boy with too-small sleep clothes, placed propped against the centre pole of the tent. The boy who had clearly been the focus, for some unknown reason. He still looked so young, the violence and serenity to the pose so at odds with each other.

Matthew set to combing through the meagre belongings in the tent while Arabella examined the boy’s body with careful hands, her face hard and brittle. The boy alone showed no signs of the multitude of cuts on the other corpses; he’d been killed, it seemed, by either the beheading or the removal of his heart. Matthew tried to ignore what Arabella was doing and stay focused on his own task, but it felt impossible. He kept seeing Amos, young and unsure, not much older than the boy killed here.

_What sort of monster kills a child._

“Matthew.”

He focused back on Arabella.

“He’s got bruises,” Arabella muttered, pointing at the hands lying in the boy’s lap. “Old ones. On his wrist, look –“

Matthew stepped over and crouched at her side, looking where she pointed. It was plain as day; a fading yellow bruise, in the shape of four fingerprints and a thumb. Large, an adult’s hand. It looked far too much like the ones on Amos’ wrists, and Matthew felt the simmering anger roar back to life.

He nodded to Arabella, throat too thick with anger to respond. There was nothing to do about it now. The boy was dead, and any chance he’d had was long gone.

“I’ll tell the others,” he finally muttered, pushing himself to his feet. “I think we’re done here.”

* * *

In the end, there was little else to be found. They still didn’t know what or who it could have been. It was something with big claws, or possibly big knives, that had torn each person apart. Or possibly both. The cuts had varied, some resembling the four-fingered swipe of something with claws to rival Matthew’s bear claws, and some looking more like the curve of bowie knife through flesh. At the same time, it had the clear ability to maneuver through the tents with ease without damaging them the way a creature like a mountain lion or bear would. And the boy, his careful positioning and

It was confusing, and frustrating, and did nothing to help the rage simmering under Matthew’s skin.

He wished, not for the first time, that Clayton was here. Clayton, who had no problem wading through blood and handling bodies, who would know the difference between claws and knives. Clayton, who would have bumped up against Matthew’s shoulder to let him know he wasn’t alone, who Matthew knew would be just as angry as he was. Clayton, who would have kept him steady, kept them _all_ steady.

But he wasn’t here, and they were stuck sorting through the blood and viscera without him, hands covered in tacky blood that wasn’t theirs, trying to hold their breaths against the scent of blood and shit and decay. The scent of death.

There were nineteen dead, all told. All grown men, with the exception of the teenage boy. They had found evidence of recently missing tents, and Matthew wondered if the women and any other children in the camp had fled, taken away by husbands unwilling to risk the fate of the men who died over the past some weeks. He wished they’d all been so wise.

“We should burn them,” Miriam murmured when they finally reconvened. Her face was ashen, and there was a smear of blood across her cheek, matching the blood coating her hands. They’d all seen her brush away tears as they worked. “Lay them to rest.”

“We don’t have enough time,” Aly said with a sigh. Matthew glanced up at the sky, and he was right; they had maybe two hours of sunlight left, and they still had to get back home.

“Maybe Swearengen’ll send some of his men, give them a proper burial.” Matthew glanced back at Amos, standing with the horses and staring at him from across the clearing, eyes still so wide in his too-pale face. “I’m not sure it’s best for Amos to see it all, anyhow.” 

“At the very least, we should cut off their heads,” Aly said quietly. “I know this ain’t the same as back then, but… just in case. We don’t want anyone rising.”

“That’s probably wise. If we do, we need to be quick, and then we need to leave. I don’t think we should spend any more time here than necessary,” Arabella said. Her face, like Miriam’s, was pale, worried, that set to her jaw that indicated she was scared and trying not to show it. She looked at Matthew. “This was recent. The blood, the bodies… they’re still in rigor mortis. I can’t give an exact time but… I think they were killed last night. Or early this morning, at the latest.” 

“If whatever killed them comes back…” Aly’s voice trailed off. He looked uneasy, a look that didn’t come easily to his face. They all knew what he was thinking without him needing to speak.

They were good. They were strong, they had magic, they had guns, and they were ready for a fight. But if the things that had killed these people could mow them down, kill _nineteen_ people without a problem, and seemingly freeze them in place – it would be a serious threat. One that they might not be able to face. 

_Especially not without our best shot._

Matthew glanced back at Amos. He was watching them with wide eyes, clutching the reins of their horses in one hand and petting the nose of his mount with the other. He looked so goddamn young.

“We can’t fight it,” he said quietly. “Not right now.”

“Agreed,” Miriam murmured. “That’s not what Swearengen hired us to do, anyhow.” She turned to Matthew. “Can you smell whoever it was? Track them? At least have an idea of which way they went.”

Matthew shook his head, upper lip curling at the scent of death still flooding his nose. “Not from here. The blood is masking everything.” He shifted uneasily. “I can take some time in the woods, but it’d be easier if I could shift.”

Arabella dragged her hand over her face. “Which you can’t do, because of Amos. Fuck. We need to fix this.”

“And hopefully before anyone else gets killed,” Miriam muttered.

And that was it. This thing, this whatever had fucking _slaughtered_ the camp here – there was a chance it would kill again. Especially if it was after gold, or was targeting miners. If their experience with the goddamn snakes so long ago had taught them anything, it was that weird and horrible events were rarely singular occurrences. Unless this was some sick sort of vengeance on _this_ group, there would be more deaths. Maybe not in Deadwood, and maybe not soon, but somewhere, sometime, others would die. Matthew was sure of it.

“We should start back,” he said. “I want to be back in Deadwood before dark.”

The others nodded, his own unease reflected back at him on their faces. Nothing about this sat well.

“I’ll start on the bodies,” Aly said, looking back at Amos for a minute. “Miriam, would you distract him? He doesn’t need to see this.”

She nodded, looking grateful.

“I can help,” Arabella said, hand on the knife she now carried at her hip. 

“Give me a minute, then I’ll help,” Matthew said, looking back at the gory tents, the headless, heartless boy sitting heavy on his mind. “I want to pray over them.”

“Of course,” Arabella said. She looked back and shivered, then redirected her gaze onto Matthew and Aly. “Just maybe… let’s not take too long.”

* * *

He prayed over the dead for as long as he could, as long as he would let himself. Then he pulled out Clayton’s bowie knife, the one he’d strapped to his own belt after Miriam confiscated it from Amos, and set to work.

The first cut of the knife into cold, long-dead flesh nearly turned his stomach inside out.

It was gruesome work, and went against everything he believed in, but he knew it was necessary. But he hated it, hated that they had to do this to keep people safe, hated that they couldn’t leave the bodies alone or set them to proper rest. It felt too much like desecration, and too little like protection. By the time they were done he was exhausted, weary with the weight of necessary evils, and sick to the bone as his anger dissipated into sorrow.

They washed up in the steam that ran behind the camp, the one that Matthew knew must contain gold. The water babbled around them as they scrubbed blood from hands and wrists and forearms, as they wet handkerchiefs and tried to wipe the blood from their boots. As they tried to scrub the remains of this place from their skin.

It didn’t quite work. It never did.

* * *

Soon, though, they were back on the trail, riding horses that danced uneasily from the scent of death that still lingered on their clothes. Their mounts settled as they rode on, but Matthew was glad that Deadwood horses were at least, to some degree, used to this. That they hadn’t tried to run when they’d first stepped into the camp, and that Amos had been willing to keep them calm. As much as it had been a distraction, it had also been a necessary job.

Matthew felt himself settle, felt the rage and sorrow simmer into something manageable, something that he could keep tucked away. Finally he rode up beside Amos, let their horses step together.

“How you holdin’ up?” Matthew asked, keeping his voice low, so only the two of them could hear.

Amos still looked scared, and Matthew didn’t blame him. The sight back at the camp had been something that he knew would stick with him for a long, long time, and he was sure Amos hadn’t seen something like it before.

Amos’ face twisted into a scowl, and he glared fiercely at Matthew. “Goddamn well fine, preacher.”

Matthew nodded placidly. “Glad to hear it. But it’s alright if you aren’t. That was quite a sight, back there.”

“I’m fine,” Amos muttered. “I can stomach it.”

_You shouldn’t have to, though._

Matthew hoped, perhaps for the first time, that if Clayton returned to them ( _when, Matthew, **when**_ ), that he wouldn’t carry the memories from these days he was spending as Amos. It was bad enough that Amos was here, experiencing this, the death and the gore and the fear. But his husband carried enough already; he didn’t want him to have to carry more, especially memories he both did and did not experience, viewed through the lens of his teenage self.

“Well,” he finally said, “it would be fine if you couldn’t. But I’m glad you’re alright.”

Amos peered at him suspiciously, then nodded slowly. “Thanks, preacher.”

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Matthew was deep in thought when Amos startled, twisting in his saddle and drawing his pistol, letting out a yell loud enough to scatter birds from the trees overhead. Matthew was on high alert in a split second, heart racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He kicked his horse ahead, closing the gap, his own pistol in hand. Around him the others did the same, guns cocked, rifles drawn, ready for anything.

Amos was staring into the woods around them, whipping his pistol back and forth. “Did you see that? Holy _fuck_ –“

“See what?” Matthew asked urgently, scanning the woods around them. He put his nose to the air and inhaled, trying to smell something, anything. But the only thing on the breeze was the woods, deep and earthy, and the scents of their own party. Which, granted, was deeply saturated with the scent of blood and death, but still. He couldn’t smell anything amiss. 

“I – there was a, a – _fuck_ –“ Amos twisted in his saddle, looking back the other way, then at Matthew. “You didn’t see it?”

He shook his head slowly. “No, sorry son. What was it?”

“It was –“

Matthew’s attention drifted, mind growing hazy and oddly blank. Then, abruptly, he snapped back into focus. Amos was staring at him, face drained once more, twisted in fear. Moreso, he looked… unsettled.

“Oh, sorry, what were you saying?” Matthew asked. He watched as Arabella had cocked her head, puzzlement flashing briefly across her face. Aly blinked beside her, gaze dropping from the sky back to the conversation. Matthew tried to keep his focus on Amos. “Something about a…”

Amos shrank back in his saddle. “You didn’t –“ he flinched away from Matthew, and Matthew felt that twist of guilt settle in his gut for the fear he hadn’t intended to cause. “Just, just seein’ things,” Amos finally stammered out, twisting back to peer into the woods. “I – it ain’t nothin’.”

Matthew nodded sympathetically. “Happens to the best of us.”

“It’s downright normal, after a sight like we saw back there,” Aly added. “Sometimes we all jump at shadows.”

Amos bit his lip and nodded. His mouth opened, then shut with a loud click. He still looked so _scared._

“Let’s keep on,” Miriam said kindly, starting down the trail again. “It’ll do us all good to be back in town.”

Amos looked around again, then finally nodded and kicked his horse into motion, pistol still drawn, hand white-knuckled on his reins. Matthew sighed and followed, letting his horse drop to the back of the line. Maybe with people at his back, Amos would feel safer.

Within five minutes, the whole incident had slipped from his mind. 

* * *

“Why don’t you and Amos take the horses back to the livery, and we’ll let Swearengen know what we found?” Miriam suggested when they were close to town. She’d dropped back to ride behind Matthew, who had let himself trail behind the others, the better to keep an eye on everyone. “It’s getting late, and it might save some time.”

Matthew felt a flicker of relief at the idea. He nodded, giving her a grateful smile. “We can certainly do that. Meet back at yours tomorrow to see if we can’t make heads or tails of all this?”

She nodded. “I need to stop by the Bella Union in the morning, but come over whenever you’d like. I’m sure Arabella will be starting early.”

“We’ll be there as soon as we can,” Matthew promised. He glanced at Amos, who seemed far enough ahead that he wouldn’t overhear any words spoken about him. “I want to head to the grocer’s before we come over, see if we can’t get Amos some clothing that fits.”

“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea. Might help him feel a bit more at home.”

“That’s the hope,” Matthew said ruefully. “Anything that’ll help.”

Miriam studied him. “You’re doing a good job, Matthew. This is a difficult situation, and he’s… not who Clayton is.”

That was an understatement, and they both knew it.

“Thank you, Miriam,” he said quietly. “I just… want him to be alright.”

“Give it time.” She smiled. “It’ll get easier. And with you watchin’ out for him, I have no doubt he’ll get there.”

* * *

Much to his surprise, Amos didn’t put up any sort of protest over being left out of the meeting with Swearengen. He looked exhausted, perking up only when Matthew mentioned dinner. Within half an hour of dropping off the others they were back home, the horses safely at the livery and water heating on the stove for bathing.

“I need to get the blood off me before I eat,” Matthew said to Amos with an apologetic smile. “I can still smell it. You can go ahead and eat if you want, though. I’ll make you up a plate, you can eat in the sitting room while I use the kitchen.”

Amos shrugged. “I can wait.” He fidgeted, then blurted out the question. “Can I bathe? Once you’re done.”

“Of course you can, son. Here – why don’t I go get clothes for myself, and set some out for you, then you can wait until I’m done.”

Amos nodded, and sat gingerly on the sofa to wait. Matthew went to the bedroom and pulled out his own clothes, then, after a moment’s consideration, his sleep clothes as well. He could change in the kitchen, once Amos was settled for the night. He pulled out a pair of Clayton’s work clothes as well, something well-worn and comfortable, along with the worn union suit Clayton normally wore to bed.

_Maybe he’ll feel comfortable enough not to sleep in his day clothes tonight._

* * *

After they had both bathed Matthew set their clothes to soaking, hoping to get the scent of blood off them. He wasn’t sure if it was obvious to a human nose, but to him the stench lingered, seeping into the fibres of the cloth like it meant to stay. But he’d had practice at this, at getting blood out of clothing. It would be fine.

Finally they settled in for a simple meal, much like they’d had the day before.

“We’ll have a real dinner tomorrow, I promise,” Matthew said with a sheepish smile. “I just… didn’t have much of a mind to be in a saloon this evening.”

Amos nodded, and focused back on his meal. He ate the same way he had every other meal, scarfing it down, keeping one eye on Matthew the entire time. Matthew, much like he had the night before and that morning, kept his distance, and kept his movements slow and his mood light. It seemed to help; it had been a long day, and neither of them were in the mood for conversation. They both settled as some semblance of normalcy returned, and as the thrum of adrenaline from the day fled them at last.

They were both yawning by the time the meal was over. Matthew shooed Amos to bed, washed up the dishes, and settled himself back on the make-shift bed on the couch. He listened to the quietness of the house, and let himself settle, let the fear and stress of the day fade away.

_Lord, give us strength for whatever lies ahead._

* * *

_Amos dreams of a man, a man who is dying. A man who is lying on the ground and choking on his own blood, face frozen in horror, consumed by fear. A man, who’s chest is gaping open, a blackened pit of too-dark blood where a heart should be. He is young, barely thirty, with a scar that twists across his face, neatly missing one eye. Eyes that are open, wide, caught in the blank stare of death. The dream shifts, hazy loops and swirls of grey, reforming to show spindly fingers that curve into too-sharp claws, dripping with blood, the still pulsing heart held aloft. A wicked grin, razor sharp teeth in a mouth that splits the creature’s head in two, gaping wide, wider, wide enough to swallow the heart whole._

_Amos would scream, but he cannot, for he is not real he is not there he cannot **stop**_ _this –_

_The creature turns to look at him, glowing eyes in the tangled mass of weeds. The teeth split once more, a dry, rasping laugh bubbling forth._

_“Are you afraid yet, little boy?”_

* * *

Morning came, as it always did, with the crack of light spilling over the hills, chasing the shadows away. It spilled through windows and the cracks at the bottom of doors, bright and warm, bringing the town back to life.

Somewhere nearby, a rooster crowed.

* * *

Matthew woke early to the sound of a rooster’s crow, once again plagued by dreams of Clayton that dissipated like mist in the morning sun. He wiped his face of tears, rolled to his feet, and padded into the kitchen.

He took his time, starting the stove, making coffee, letting the loneliness dwell. He didn’t do well on his own. Not anymore, not since they’d started this life together, twining around each other like two strands of thread, the whole stronger than the individual pieces. Bears weren’t pack creatures, not by nature, but humans were. And he and Clayton, well… they thrived, when they were together. They weren’t separated often, these days.

_I miss you._

He made the coffee bitter and strong, pouring sugar in until the taste reminded him of Clayton, the one bit of sweetness his husband always allowed himself. There weren’t many frivolous things that Clayton let himself indulge in, but sugar in his coffee was one of them. Watching Amos, and the air of poverty that clung to him like rags, he suddenly understood why in a way he never had before. It made him want to spoil both the younger Amos and his Clayton, whenever he should return to him.

_Someday, you’ll have everything you ever want. I promise._

When the sun was no longer dusting the horizon, and the warmth of the day was flooding through the house, he shook off the malaise and started breakfast. He made a pot of oats, set out the honey, and had salt pork frying and eggs waiting for their turn in the pan when he went to knock on Amos’ door.

There was no response. He knocked again, louder this time, calling out in a hesitant tone.

“Amos? Breakfast is ready.”

The day before, he’d heard stirring when he’d knocked, the shuffle of feet across the hardwood floor, the shift of floorboards and clothing. Today he heard nothing, just the still silence of a quiet room.

His heart pounded faster, worry flooding in.

_Please be here. Please, please tell me you didn’t run._

He knocked a third time. “Amos, I need you to answer, or I’m coming in.”

Still no answer.

_Fuck. I don’t wanna break his trust, but if he’s gone…_

To his immense surprise, the door wasn’t locked. He turned the knob slowly, creaking open the door and peering inside. For a moment, all he saw was the neatly made bed, and his heart sank, worry and fear clawing at his throat. The bed was empty.

_He’s not here._

An overwhelming sense of failure mixed with the worry. He stepped into the room, towards the window, hoping to find any trace of Amos, any sign where he might have gone. He inhaled deeply, and _oh, thank god –_ his scent was still here, too strong to be an old memory. The rushing in his ears slowed, and he finally caught the faint sound of breathing. He frowned, cocking his head. One step, then another, careful not to step on creaky floorboards. Towards the window, peering around the bed, and there –

_Oh, son._

And there, curled up on the floor behind the bed, tucked neatly into the corner of their room, one pillow shoved under his head and the spare quilt from the end of the bed drawn tight around him like a shield, was Amos.

Matthew’s heart wrenched. 

He stared at the tiny ball of teenager, fists clenched, wondering what event in his past would have caused him to forsake the bed and sleep on the goddamn floor. Was it because he feared the repercussions of messing up the bed? Or because the bed was more vulnerable, while the floor offered some modicum of safety, with a wall at his back and the bed between him and the door, hidden neatly out of view? Or perhaps the reasoning was that he could crawl under the bed quickly if Matthew came for him in the middle of the night. He'd certainly fit, scrawny as he was, and Matthew wouldn't be able to follow. And he probably didn't know that Matthew could lift the bed with ease.

The only part that didn’t make sense was the door.

_Why wasn’t it locked? Maybe he forgot…_

It didn’t make sense, but it wasn’t important now. Matthew forced himself to relax his clenched fists, his shoulders. He watched for another moment, then nodded to himself. He could let the boy sleep. He probably needed it.

As he turned to go, his ears caught a sound, muffled, unsure. He stopped, frowned, and turned back. And there, again, another sound, quieter still. He wasn’t sure he’d have even heard it if he weren’t a werebear. He cleared his throat.

"Amos?" he called, keeping his tone gentle. "You awake, son?"

There was no response. Matthew frowned and peered closer at Amos, listening more intently. He noted the wrinkle in Amos' forehead, the clench of his jaw, just visible over the edge of the blanket. The quickness of his breath, the tenseness to his body, curled so damn tightly. The dark shadows under his eyes and the faint scent of fear and stale sweat washing through the room.

_A nightmare. Fuck._

Amos let out another noise, one that Matthew now recognized as a strangled whimper, followed by a hitched breath. It was so goddamn _quiet_ , like even in his sleep he was trying to hide it.

_One guess as to where he learned to keep quiet like that._

Matthew stepped closer, letting his footsteps fall heavier, hoping they would wake Amos. “Amos?”

Amos curled tighter in on himself, but he didn’t wake. Matthew spotted two faint tear tracks rolling down his face. He crossed the last few steps and knelt, then reached out for Amos’ shoulder with one careful hand.

“Amos. Wake up, son. You’re dreaming.”

Amos shot awake as soon as Matthew’s hand settled on the blanket cocooned around him. He scrambled away from Matthew with a hoarse scream, twisting and flailing at the blanket trapping his limbs. Matthew backed up, raising both his hands in a gesture showing he meant no harm. Amos didn’t seem to notice, shoving himself into the corner as far away from Matthew as he could and gasping for breath. His eyes shone brightly in a too-pale face, wide and terrified. His hands emerged from the bundle of quilt, one of Clayton’s guns held between them, aimed at Matthew’s chest.

_Fuck._

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” Matthew soothed, scooting slowly backwards, not rising from his kneeling position. He didn’t want to loom, to make things worse than they already were. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

Amos’ mouth opened, then snapped shut again. He sucked in a ragged breath, then another, nearly hyperventilating. His hands shook, the gun trembling between them.

“It’s morning,” Matthew continued, slow and quiet. “I came to get you for breakfast. You didn’t answer, so I wanted to check that you were alright. The door was unlocked.”

“I’m fucking fine,” Amos gasped, gun still leveled at his chest. “Get the fuck out.” As soon as he said it he flinched, like he was expecting to be hit just for saying the words aloud.

Matthew nodded slowly. “I will,” he said carefully, lowering his hands to his lap and shifting further away. “This is your room, now, and you can have the space you need. But… if you want, I can stay. Being alone after a nightmare ain’t fun.”

Amos’ eyes pinched shut, teeth gritting together. He ground the heel of one hand against his eyes, wiping away the tears, one hand still holding the wavering gun. When he spoke again, his voice was tenuously balanced towards anger, panic still threading through his words. “I don’t – I don’t _need_ you.” Then, quieter, more desperately. “Please. Please, just… just leave.”

So Matthew nodded, then stood, slowly and carefully, trying to contain the trembling of his own hands, to keep his voice soft and quiet. “Alright. I’ll be in the kitchen. Take your time. Breakfast is ready, whenever you want.”

Then he stepped out of the room, and pulled the door shut. 

* * *

Matthew went into the kitchen, and sat at the table, putting his head in his hands. One breath, then two, deep inhales, filling his chest and straining to bring peace along with the air. He closed his eyes, and prayed, silent requests for strength, for guidance, and for the child in the bedroom behind him.

The door creaked open across the house, faster than Matthew had expected. So he shook himself off, went to the stove, and turned the bacon.

* * *

Amos was quiet through breakfast, alternating between shrinking away from Matthew and glowering at him fiercely. The dark circles were still prominent on his face, and when he’d first appeared in the kitchen Matthew could’ve sworn his hands were still shaking. The gun was holstered neatly on his hip, as was its twin.

_Better than pointed at me, I suppose._

All Matthew wanted to do was hug him, or ruffle his hair, to do whatever he could to reassure Amos that he was okay, that whatever dreams had scared him so badly were just dreams, and couldn’t hurt him now. Matthew was a tactile person, and always had been. Sure, he could comfort through his words, like any good preacher. But with his people, he always felt better when he could touch and _know_ they were okay. He’d always blamed it on the bear, and his friends had become accustomed to it, welcomed it even. But Amos clearly wasn’t able or ready to receive that sort of comfort yet, and Matthew knew that trust would need to be built, slowly and carefully, before it could happen. It reminded him far too much of the early days with Clayton, warily accepting Matthew’s touch, not quite trusting that it wouldn’t lead to something bad. This, though, was so much worse.

So he did what he could, offering small smiles, but letting Amos stay quiet and not pressing. He didn’t think that asking if he’d like to talk about the dream would be taken very well. Nor did he think that now was the time to bring up the fact that he’d apparently been sleeping on the goddamn _floor._

And then there was the way that Amos was picking at his food. He barely touched the bacon or the eggs, and spent the meal ripping bread into small pieces and dunking it in his oats. The same protective hunch over his meal from the day before was still there, and Matthew got the sense that he was forcing himself to eat at all.

_Lord knows what sort of punishments he’s been given before for ‘wasting food’._

And the thing was – the behaviour was _familiar_. Clayton did that, sometimes, when he’d had a nightmare, or was healing from a wound. Sometimes his appetite just fled. But he always, always, tried to force himself to eat. Matthew had become accustomed to making light foods, on those days, things that were easy to pick at. He’d always figured that Clayton forced himself to eat his meals because of past times of hunger while on the run, but watching Amos forced him to re-evaluate.

_I should’ve expected this._

Matthew ate his own meal slowly, trying to figure out how to let Amos know that he didn’t need to finish his food in a way that wouldn’t be taken wrong. Finally he scraped his own plate clean, then nodded to Amos. 

“We should probably head out soon. Why don’t I take your eggs and bacon and make you a sandwich that you can take with you? In case you get hungry later.”

Amos flushed. “I can finish.”

“Well…” he didn’t want Amos to force himself to finish. That never helped, at least for Clayton. “You alright with finishin’ it on the road?”

A flicker of relief passed over Amos’ face, almost too quick to see. Then the glower was back full-force. He shoved his plate across the table to Matthew. “Coulda just said you needed me to hurry up.”

Matthew didn’t take the bait. “Thank you, Amos. Just give me a few minutes to get this put together and get dressed, then we’ll head out.”

* * *

They were nearly to the grocers, the wrapped sandwich in Amos’ coat pocket, when Amos realized they weren’t heading to Arabella and Miriam’s.

“Where are we going? This ain’t the way to Miss Miriam’s house.”

“No, it ain’t.” Matthew nodded to the store up ahead. “We’re going to the grocers. They’ve got some hardware, general goods, that sort of thing. I wanna see if they’ve got any clothes, something that might fit you better.”

Amos stared at him, nearly stumbling over the rough dirt road before he focused back on where he was walking. “You’re buying me clothes?”

Matthew nodded. “Yessir. Thought I mentioned the idea yesterday. It can’t be comfortable, walkin’ around in Clayton’s things.”

“Didn’t think you were serious. You – you ain’t gotta do that.” Amos sounded unsure in an entirely new way. “I’m used to havin’ too big things, I can –“

“Nonsense. You’re damn near trippin’ over your trousers.” He looked at Amos, smiling gently. “It ain’t a big deal, alright?”

Amos ducked his head. “You ain’t gotta spend money on me.”

Matthew shrugged. “Well, if it eases your mind, it ain’t just my money I’m spending. It’s yours. Well, Clayton’s, but… yours.”

Another minute passed before Amos finally nodded uneasily. “Alright, preacher. You wanna buy me clothes… guess I ain’t gonna stop you.”

* * *

“Mornin’, James,” Matthew called as they made their way to the front counter of the grocers. James looked up and nodded in greeting. “Say, you got any clothes for sale, ones that don’t need tailoring? This young man is in town staying with us – with me for a little while, but his luggage got lost on the journey. He needs sommat that’ll fit, at least a bit better than what he’s got.”

James raised an eyebrow at him. “Lost his luggage? All of it? Damn, that’s some bad luck.”

Matthew shook his head. “You’re tellin’ me.” He nodded at Amos. “This is Mossy Sharpe, Clayton’s nephew. Got anything in his size? I’d prefer to buy new, and we need something quicker than a tailor can provide. Boots if you have them too, he’s outgrown his.”

James nodded slowly, looking Amos up and down. “Mossy Sharpe, eh? I can see the resemblance, especially with that duster. I think we might have something that can fit him, sure. Nothing fancy, you know how pre-made is.” He pointed into one corner of the store. “Clothing’s over there. I can recommend a tailor if you want to get it fitted proper. If there ain’t anything that’ll do, you can head to Missus Baker’s, she’s got used clothing. Boots are just down the aisle.”

Matthew nodded his thanks, then led Amos over into the corner. He started sifting through the meagre array of clothing that was there, pulling out shirts and trousers and holding them up to Amos’ skinny frame. Amos fidgeted, looking unsure with the whole affair.

“What do you think of these?” Matthew asked as he held up a pair of trousers that looked about the right length.

Amos shrugged uncomfortably. “They look fine, I guess.”

Matthew raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes?” Amos looked away. “They’re just trousers, ain’t they? Don’t really matter what I think of them. Just get whatever’s cheapest.”

Matthew frowned. “I’d rather get something you like. Something that’s going to be comfortable, at the very least.”

“It’s fine,” the teenager muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. He’d shifted back into snarkiness, which Matthew wearily told himself he should have expected. It seemed to be Amos’ automatic defense to anything he wasn’t sure what to do with. “You can just get whatever, ok? Ma ain’t never cared whether I like m’ clothes, don’t see why you do.”

Matthew barely contained a sigh. “I just want you to be comfortable,” he said smoothly, smiling when Amos eyed him. “If you’d rather I pick things out, I can do that. But if you’ve got preferences, that’s okay. Money ain’t an issue.”

Amos eyed him carefully, then put out a hand and touched the fabric of the trousers, rubbing it softly between his fingertips. The unsurety flashed back across his face, as though he wasn’t even certain what he was looking for. And well, that was understandable, too. Finally he shrugged again. “Seems fine.”

Matthew nodded and folded the trousers back up, setting them aside and grabbing another pair.

In the end they picked out three complete sets of clothing, and some extra underthings and socks. Simple clothes, the sort that would last a long time, and would live through the wear and tear of teenage boyhood. If Amos was with them long enough to need fancier duds, Church clothes and the like, they’d visit the tailor. He was glad when Amos finally showed some preference towards the end, hesitantly requesting a shirt in a white shirt striped with blue, made of soft cotton and just the right size.

Next they looked at boots. They got lucky, finding a pair that fit Amos near perfectly, with a bit of room to grow. Matthew remembered being a teenager, and how quickly his boots became tight. Amos had tried to protest the boots, but Matthew had remained firm, smiling and shaking his head.

“If it makes you feel better, I need to know that you aren’t going to be tripping over your own feet if you ever need to run anywhere,” he said seriously. “Place like this – you wanna be ready.”

Amos bit his lip and nodded, and Matthew added a beautiful new pair of leather boots to the pile. He handed the pile to Amos to carry.

“That should do for a little while. We can come back next week if there’s… if Clayton hasn’t come back.”

“Don’t gotta buy so much,” Amos said quietly. “You don’t even know if I’m gonna be here that long.”

“I’d rather not have too much, than too little,” Matthew said. “Besides, if you do, ah ‘go home’, I’m sure I can find someone in town who could use them. The O’Leary’s have a son about your age, I believe.” He handed the bundle of clothing to Amos, who took it gingerly, then started off through the aisles. “I need to pick up a few groceries, then we can head back, alright?”

They wandered up and down the aisles, picking up small packets of sugar, flour, soap, and the like, finally making their way back up to the counter. Matthew watched out of the corner of his eyes as Amos peered at a small display of pocket knives sitting among the clutter. Amos glanced at Matthew, then the knives.

“All set?”

Matthew’s attention turned to James. “I believe so. Here, son –“

He turned, holding out his hand. As Amos handed him the small pile of clothing, Matthew caught a glimpse of one of the boy’s hands slipping into a pocket, just out of sight of the man behind the counter. Matthew glanced back down the counter, trying not to make it obvious, and sure enough, the knife display was down by one. 

_Well, that won’t do._

“Oh, before I forget –“

Matthew slipped behind Amos, bumping into him and dipping one hand carefully into his pocket and retrieving the stolen knife. Amos bristled at the touch, shifting two steps back as Matthew shot him an apologetic smile. Scanning the counter, Matthew finally picked up a little tin of pomade, making a pleased ‘aha!’ noise. He shifted back around to where he’d stood before, handing both it and the knife to James and flashing him a smile. Amos went still behind him.

“Been meaning to try this pomade, but I always forget to pick it up.” 

James hummed. “It’s popular enough with the fellas. Not sure it’s your style though, Reverend.”

Matthew gave him an easy smile. “Well, we’ll see.”

James packaged the clothing and food into paper parcels and bags, and Matthew paid him in gold. He could nearly feel Amos’ discomfort at the cost, just as he could feel his eyes on the gold as Matthew handed it over. He wondered if it was the first time the boy had seen gold up-close and personal. It wasn’t like gold was the normal form of currency, outside of mining camps like this.

As soon as they exited the building he stopped and turned to Amos, who had gone pale and quiet beside him, projecting fear so loudly it hurt. But the streets were busy, and Matthew didn’t want to have a conversation about theft where anyone could overhear.

“Let’s head back to our place, let you change into some of your new duds, then we’ll head to the ladies’ house. Sound ok?”

Amos nodded, keeping his eyes on the street.

“Hey.” He waited until Amos’ eyes darted to his face, then gave him a reassuring smile. “You’re not in trouble, Amos.”

Amos swallowed and nodded, then dropped his gaze. 

_That’s going to have to be good enough for now._

He stopped the sigh before it could emerge, turned, and headed for home.

* * *

Once they were home Matthew toed off his boots, then carried the parcels into the kitchen. Amos followed slowly, keeping his distance, wary gaze tracking his every move. Matthew kept his movements slow, even, and made sure there was a smile on his face. He was good at keeping his face calm, when he remembered. He’d had plenty of practice over the years.

He rummaged through the bags until he found the one that held the pocket knife, then held it out to Amos.

“Here, son. I’d rather that you didn’t steal while you’re with me. If you need something, just ask, and I’ll buy it or give you money to purchase it yourself.” He kept his voice quiet and gentle. “Alright?”

Amos’ eyes flicked from the knife to Matthew’s face, then back again. “I’m sorry.” He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. Protectively. It was as if all the fight had gone out of him, replaced only by that too-familiar fear. Matthew didn’t like it. “I won’t steal again, I – I didn’t mean to –“

“Amos,” Matthew said gently. Amos flinched and took a step back. “It’s alright, son. I meant what I said. You’re not in trouble.”

He kept holding it out, and after a long second Amos reached out and took it, his hand shaking imperceptibly. As soon as he plucked it from Matthew’s hand he flinched again, stepping back and out of Matthew’s space, holding himself so tightly it looked like he would break. Matthew let him go, flashing an easy smile.

“It’s a nice knife. Should do you well.”

Amos’ hand was curled tight around it. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Matthew nodded. “You’re welcome.” Then he held out the parcels with Amos’ new clothing in them. “Here – why don’t you go and get changed, while I put the food away. Whatever you’re not wearing now can go in whichever drawer you’d like. Take your time, alright?”

Amos took the parcels, still moving carefully, warily. When Matthew made no move towards him, his shoulders relaxed. He nodded, and then left the kitchen. Matthew listened as footsteps padded through the house, then as the bedroom door scraped shut. The lock clicked into place.

He sighed, and scrubbed at his face.

_Lord, this is gonna be the death of me._

* * *

When Amos made his way back into the kitchen, Matthew was sitting at the table, reading his Bible. He looked up, beaming at the sight of the teen in clothes much more fitting his age and size. And best of all, he looked calmer; still wary, but some of the overwhelming fear from earlier was gone.

“Well don’t you look nice!”

Amos flushed. “Thanks,” he muttered. “We uh… we going now?”

Matthew nodded and stood, closing his Bible as he did so. “Ready when you are.”

Once they were out on the streets, mixing in with the hustle and bustle of the thoroughfare, Amos sidled up close.

“How’d you know how to pick my pocket so well?” he asked, voice quiet enough that only Matthew could hear. Matthew wondered if it felt safer to ask a question like that out here, with so many people around them. “I didn’t even feel it.”

“I wasn’t always a preacher,” Matthew said easily. “Picked up all manner of skills along the way.”

Amos snorted. Matthew found himself grinning, glad that some of the teen’s attitude had returned. The tension that had been there since they left the store eased. “Skills, sure. Does older me know about these uh – ‘skills’?”

Matthew laughed. “He surely does. He’s seen them in action more than a few times, when we’ve been on jobs.”

Amos looked contemplative. “… would you teach me?”

It was Matthew’s turn to snort. “Not a chance in hell.”

* * *

Aly answered Miriam’s door, pulling it open with a smile. “Thought you two would never show up. I’ve been suffocatin’ under the biggest pile of papers you ever saw.”

Amos laughed. It wasn’t the first time that he’d laughed, but it was the first time that he’d laughed in true humour, not something clearly born out of distress. Aly’s grin widened, and Matthew couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“Did Miriam abandon you?” Matthew asked as they stepped inside. “I thought I told her we’d be late, we needed to pick up some clothes at the general store.”

Aly looked at Amos. “I thought somethin’ was different. Lookin’ good, kid.”

Amos _blushed_ , fidgeting with the edge of his shirt as he looked away, and lord if it wasn’t the most adorable thing in the world. Aly and Matthew exchanged a fond look.

“But no, she’s at the Bella Union this mornin’, checkin’ up on Joanie and the girls.”

“Right, she’d mentioned that.” Matthew sighed, and hung up his coat. “Alright, let’s get to work. Oh, Aly – what did Swearengen say last night?”

Aly shrugged. “Not much. Looked pissed, said he’d tell Sheriff Bullock about it. He wants us to keep looking, see what we can find about who or what would be killing like that. Swearengen…” Aly glanced at Amos, then continued. “He thought it might be a serial killer. So we thought we might have luck with newspapers and the like, see if there’s any mention of similar murders. I picked up whatever I could get in town on my way over.”

“A serial killer, good Lord.” It would fit, though. Or it might, at least, if they couldn’t find surer evidence that this was some creature at work. But Matthew knew better than most that the line between man and monster was terribly thin, and that men had carried out far more horrific deeds than the one they had found. “Alright, guess we’ll be combing papers while Arabella works the magic side. Is Swearengen sending out a crew for the bodies?”

Aly shook his head. “Nope. He said he wouldn’t risk any of them while there’s a chance that whatever killed them is still around.”

 _Fuck_. Matthew frowned but nodded. “I suppose that’s understandable. Shit, I wish we’d had more time yesterday.”

“Yeah, me too.” Aly sighed, and led them through the house. “Not much we can do for it now. Maybe later, after… well, maybe we can go back, see what we can do.”

_After we get Clayton back. After we figure out who killed them. After._

“Guess that’s the only choice we’ve got.”

* * *

Arabella barely said hello as they came into the sitting room, nose buried in her books. Aly had already made headway into the stack of papers, and Matthew grabbed a few, then held one out to Amos.

Amos looked at it, then at Matthew. “Can I keep workin’ on the books?”

Matthew nodded, and set the paper on his own stack. It figured that Amos would want to work on his own situation, rather than looking for murders. He felt a bit of relief at the idea, remembering Amos’ nightmare, and the affect the bloody scene had had on him. _Maybe we should keep him away from researching the murders._ “Of course. Let us know if you find anything.”

Amos nodded, and soon they were settled in and working.

About an hour had passed when the front door creaked open across the house, then shut. A few moments later Miriam came into the room. She looked tired, but brightened up when she saw them, smiling and uttering a quick “hello” before turning to Arabella and setting a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m back, ‘Bells.”

Arabella finally emerged from her books, blinking up at Miriam, then at the clock.

“You alright?” she asked, peering at Miriam’s face with a slight frown. “You’re normally back earlier.”

Miriam nodded and sighed. “There was a murder last night. George Nicholson, you remember him? Fella with the scar across his face, hangs out at the Bella Union?”

Matthew nodded along with the others, his heart sinking. George was a nice fella, a bit quiet, a bit nervous. But he’d lacked the meanness that was so often present in the citizens of Deadwood.

_Shit. I’ll have to stop by the undertakers, there’ll need to be a funeral soon._

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Amos’ face draining at Miriam’s words. For a brief moment he looked terrified, before it schooled into a more neutral blankness. Matthew frowned, worried about the memories from the day before, the blood and the bodies, that he was sure Amos must be remembering.

_Poor kid. Must still be rattled from yesterday._

“I don’t know the particulars,” Miriam continued, “but word had already gotten to the girls. Turns out he’s one of Whitney’s favourite clients. She was quite upset.”

“Understandably. Was it a dual?” Matthew asked.

Miriam frowned and shook her head. “I don’t believe so. Sounds like he was killed at home.”

Amos shoved himself to his feet. “Can – can I please be excused?” he blurted out. He barely waited for Miriam’s confused nod before he was stalking out the door.

Miriam looked after him, then at Matthew. “He alright?”

Matthew sighed. “I don’t know. It’s probably a lot, hearin’ about a murder after the bodies yesterday.” He got to his own feet. “I’ll check on him.”

The kitchen, when he made his way into it, was empty. But the back door was open, just the screen closed, and Matthew caught Amos’ scent when he stepped towards it. He looked outside, and caught a glimpse of the nearby privy in the distance. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to catch a minute alone, but Matthew could understand how it might be the safest place Amos could think of.

So he sat in the kitchen and waited until Amos, face still pale, slipped back in through the door. A scowl emerged the instant he saw Matthew.

“What, don’t even trust me to go to the privy?”

 _Should’ve expected that he’d think that_. Matthew shook his head. “I just wanted to see if you’re alright. You looked a little spooked by what Miriam said.”

The scowl deepened. “I’m fucking fine.”

“My apologies, then. Didn’t mean to offend.”

Amos side-eyed him like he wasn’t sure what to do with the apology, but didn’t respond. Finally he skirted around Matthew, and disappeared back towards the others. Matthew closed his eyes, said a prayer, and stood to follow.

_“It’ll get easier.” Sure._

* * *

Amos’ mood didn’t improve. He stayed quiet, for the most part, but the few words he did impart on them were short, just shy of angry. Matthew suspected that it was covering anxiety or fear; he knew enough about Amos that by now he could recognize when the teenager had turned to anger as a defense mechanism. He couldn’t help but be worried at the way Amos kept jumping at every little noise, or how he’d angled his chair so he could keep an eye on the window. It probably didn’t help that Amos looked exhausted, the circles under his eyes only darkening as the day went on. Matthew almost wished that he’d fall asleep like he had the day prior.

It was a long day, and boring as hell, if Matthew was being honest. Which he tried to do, these days, when he could afford a little honestly. They’d stopped for lunch, a simple meal put together by Miriam and Amos, who’d looked relieved when Miriam asked for his help, eagerly putting down the books and following her to the kitchen. His mood had lightened with the meal, somewhat, only to sour again as the afternoon dragged on.

Matthew tried to remind himself that it was only to be expected. Boredom, fear, and exhaustion weren’t the ideal circumstance for any teenage boy, let alone one who was out of place and barely knew them. Hell, Matthew himself was bored and frustrated, and he _wasn’t_ suddenly finding himself in another time and place with strangers that he didn’t know and didn’t trust. He reminded himself of that every time Amos snarked under his breath or glowered at them, and reminded him of the vow he’d made to himself; that he wouldn’t respond with anger. That he, at least, would be a safe place for Amos, whenever he needed it.

Still, he couldn’t help but be glad when the day drew to a close. He hated this sort of work, and hated how much it felt like inaction. But there wasn’t anything else they _could_ do, so they had kept looking, and looking, and looking. But finally, and thankfully without any major issues, they put down their books and left for dinner. Matthew felt like they’d barely made any headway; neither he nor Aly had found anything useful in the papers they’d scoured, and while the pile of notes beside Arabella had grown substantially, there hadn’t been the breakthrough they were hoping for. Arabella had protested stopping for the evening, but Miriam had pulled her to her feet with a firm “put the book down, dear. At least for dinner.”

They went to the Gem, all of them needing to get out after a day cooped up inside. Amos followed them quietly, once again staring around wide-eyed at everything in the saloon. His lack of appetite from that morning had fled, and Matthew was pleased to see him scarf down everything they set in front of him, and quietly accept seconds when Matthew pushed more biscuits his way. Even the acceptance was a step in the right direction, and Matthew felt a bit of hope kindle in his chest.

Maybe, just maybe, things would work out.

* * *

By the time they had returned to the parsonage it was late, and exhaustion was tugging at Matthew’s bones. A quick glance at Amos told him that the teen most likely felt the same way.

“Why don’t we turn in early,” he suggested. “Get a good night’s rest for whatever tomorrow brings.”

“Probably more books,” Amos muttered. He hesitated, and for a moment he looked torn, a flicker of worry appearing in his eyes. Matthew stayed quiet, waiting, hopeful that he would speak his mind. But Amos just folded his arms around himself, and nodded quietly. “Alright. You – you need into the bedroom first?”

Matthew let the hope drop, and shook his head. “Left my things out here this morning, I can change in the kitchen. Thank you, though.” He smiled. “Sleep well, alright?”

Amos bit his lip, but nodded. The bedroom door clicked shut behind him.

Matthew sighed, and headed for the kitchen.

_What a day. Lord, give us peace tonight._

* * *

_Amos dreamed of blood and bone and spindly fingers and sharp teeth smiling at him too knowingly, how does it **know** him -_

_Too-sharp teeth curled into that terrible smile, rasping out laughter and creaking words._

_“Found you. Aren’t you gonna let me in, boy?”_

* * *

Something tapped on the windowpane.

* * *

A shout (a scream, it was a _scream_ ) from the bedroom ripped Matthew from sleep. He was off the sofa and stumbling towards the bedroom before he could even make sense of what he was hearing. He shoved open the bedroom door to see Amos, pale faced and terrified, scrambling up and over the bed towards him.

“Whoa, hey, what’s -"

Amos darted forward and grabbed Matthew’s arm, pulling him out of the room and slamming the door shut behind them.

“Get out, it’s not _safe_ -"

Matthew put a hand on Amos' shoulder. “Hey, hey, slow down. Take a breath. What’s wrong?”

“The window, I saw it, it was _here,_ the -"

Matthew lost focus, gaze slipping away to stare at the wall as everything fell away into a blurry haze. His hand falling off Amos’ shoulder brought him back to the moment as Amos wrenched himself away. He was staring at Matthew, face somehow even paler, eyes round and bright.

“Hmm? Sorry, I missed what you said.”

Amos opened his mouth, and Matthew’s focus disappeared, mind going blank. When he blinked back to awareness Amos looked ready to cry, face desperate and furious all at once.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Matthew said. He blinked rapidly, rubbing at his eyes. His mind was so _foggy_ , exhaustion tugging at his senses, making it hard to stay present. He never did well when he got woken abruptly. _Shit, c’mon Matthew, stay awake._ “Sorry, I’m listening.”

Amos bit his lip. He stared at Matthew, then at the closed bedroom door. He shook his head and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to contain the shaking. “It was nothing. Just… just a bad dream.”

Matthew sighed. _Fuck. Should’ve expected that after he had nightmares last night._ “I’m sorry, Amos. I should’ve thought of that. We’ve got some lavender, could put it under your pillow to help with that. Did you want to talk about it?”

Amos gaped at him, then shook his head again. “No,” he whispered. “No, that won’t help.”

Matthew frowned. “Alright. Well, what about some tea then back to bed?”

Amos hesitated. “Can I… can I sleep in here? On the floor?”

 _Oh, son_. Matthew nodded. “Sure. You take the sofa though. I can take the bed instead, if you want a space alone.”

“No!” Amos almost shouted the word, grabbing Matthew’s arm with panicked fingers. He squeezed his eyes closed, then repeated it. “No. Stay, please.”

“Alright. Alright, I will. Let me just get a blanket -"

“No!”

Matthew opened the door before Amos could stop him. Amos froze, shrinking away from the open door.

“Son, it’s fine, it was just a nightmare,” Matthew soothed. He stepped into the room, and found himself glancing around for any monsters hiding in the shadows. Then he huffed, nearly shaking his head at his own foolishness.

_They’re just shadows, Matthew._

He went to the bed and dragged the quilt and pillow off it. Then he stepped around the corner, ignoring Amos’ sharp inhale and muttered curse, and picked up the now-expected pile of bedding off the floor.

He turned around, bedding in hand, and was half-way to the door when he looked up and noticed Amos staring at him. As Matthew watched, his gaze drifted behind Matthew, towards the back wall, no, the _window._ And then he _startled_ , horror passing over his face. Matthew spun around and – the window was empty. _What the…_

“You see something?” he asked, angling his body back at the teen while trying to keep the window in view. The wind picked up, whistling around the house. _Maybe a branch or something hit it…_

Amos’ mouth opened, then closed. He shivered, holding himself tighter. “No,” he whispered. “Just jumpin' at shadows.”

_Poor kid._

“Come on,” Matthew murmured, shuffling out of the room and closing the door behind them both. Amos kept staring at it, like he was still seeing whatever his mind had concocted in the room behind them. Matthew touched his shoulder carefully. “You can sleep on the sofa, alright? Or one of the chairs, if you want.”

“I’d rather sleep on the floor,” Amos whispered. “Please.”

Matthew sighed. “Alright.” He squeezed Amos’ shoulder lightly, then fumbled through folding the quilt and laying it down on the rug in the middle of the room, just big enough for a bed for a teenage boy. He handed the other blanket and pillows to Amos, patted him on the shoulder again, and stumbled back to the sofa. A yawn nearly split his face in two. He was suddenly so damn _tired_.

He lay back down, and was asleep within seconds.

(Amos curled up on the makeshift mat, heart still pounding, back pressed against the wall. He watched as Matthew fell back asleep, trying to contain his fear and confusion, and desperately wishing that Matthew had just _seen._ But he hadn’t.

He hadn’t seen the twisted grin, the fingers like spindly sticks and brambles tapping at the window. He hadn’t seen the smear of dark blood the creature left on the pane of glass, or the gaping maw that laughed when Amos bolted away from it. Matthew hadn’t seen his own face go slack and lifeless as Amos tried and tried to tell what he’d seen, fear rising in his throat with each failed attempt. And worse, Matthew hadn’t seen the creature return the _moment_ he’d turned his back to the window. But Amos had seen. Amos had watched in horror as the creature pointed one spindly finger at Matthew, mouthing words only Amos could hear before disappearing again.

_He’s next, boy._

And not two minutes after Matthew had fallen asleep, he didn’t see Amos drag his blankets away from the vulnerable spot in the middle of the room, then settle with his shoulders wedged into the corner. He didn’t see the fear, the grit of teeth and clench of hands, nails biting into palms.

So Amos huddled in the dark alone and tried to quell the shaking, tried to keep himself awake. He listened to the sound of Matthew’s breathing and the wind howling around the house, and wished he’d brought the guns from the bedroom. And for the first time in years he found himself praying, desperate pleas for safety, for guidance, for protection.

 _Please. Please. Don’t let it kill us_.)

(He didn’t know yet that something would answer. Something would, but not God. At least, not the one he thought he knew.

In another space, dark and expansive, the Dealer grinned.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings - many more descriptions of gore, dead bodies, and death; implied and referenced past child abuse; anxiety and trauma responses from Amos, and lots of fear; nightmares, specifically nightmares of people being killed, and of a humanoid creature eating a still-beating heart, as well as general dream creepiness; characters being unable to remember conversations by some unknown means; and “someone looking in at the bedroom window at night” type scariness.
> 
> * * *
> 
> HOOO BOOOOY. We're gettin’ real spooky up in here!! 
> 
> A fun fact: the Deadwood Grocers opened in 1877, and one of the owners was named James! I am not 100% certain that they would have sold pre-made clothes, but it seemed a safe bet. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading this absolute monster of a chapter, I hope y’all enjoyed!! Comments and kudos, should you want to leave them, are always appreciated <3 
> 
> As always, I can be found on the tumblr [here](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
